The Pretenders (A Phantom Of Venice Alternate Ending)
by AbbieWithAnie
Summary: Nancy Drew and Joe Hardy meet for the first time in this chilling espionage adventure. But they meet each other with fake identities and masks. Joe is immediately allured by Nancy and is determined to learn more about her...little does he know, Nancy is working on the same case he is. By working together, Nancy and Joe will discover that pretenders are everyone. Even themselves.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 **Nancy**

My hair was long and annoying. And if it hadn't been for the constant reassuring compliments from Bess Marvin and Hannah, I would have simply chopped it off by now. Their words pounded down any notion of scissors and a bathroom mirror that stuck up in my mind like a rebel nail. I couldn't cut my hair, because apparently it was "gorgeous exactly as it was." I didn't agree, but I thanked them anyway. In a dry, irritated sort of way.

My hair had never been such a nuisance as it had in Venice on this case. It took an extra ten minutes to tie it up and pin it in such a way that no locks of titian would escape from under my blonde wig. It was an extra step and an ounce of wasted time whenever I had to quickly transform into Samantha Quick.

But maybe I wouldn't have to bother with it anymore. Because I'd finally found the crime ring's 'safe and secure store.' So many things pointed to this place as the final piece of the puzzle—I could feel it. All of the thefts lined up, all the stolen artifacts and art, there was no better place I could think of to hide them than in these wells. Whoever was behind all this—I still couldn't pin the mastermind on one particular individual—they were brilliant.

 _43556._ I held my breath, waiting for that sound—the one I loved so much. The suctioning sort of click of the lock as it pulled out of its passionate kiss with the door frame. But instead I heard nothing.

 _What? How can this be happening?_

I tried the code again. And when my damp fingertips sunk into the last of the abused buttons—number six who looked quite pale and disappointed—I was met with silence again. _Dead freaking silence._ I tried the handle, wondering if this primitive system could really be strangely digitally developed on the inside. But no, my wild guess was crushed. Locked tight.

I pinched my eyes shut and listened to the walls quietly weep for a moment. Forcing my burning hot mind to cool down, calm down and just think for a moment. _Just. Think._

I knew this password. I hadn't intercepted the notes, discovered the gang's plans to change the code for the storage unit and picked my way through it all painstakingly, just to be defeated by the mocking stare of a locked door. This was not going to end like this.

 _I just needed…_

I let my eyes ease themselves open, taking a deep breath. Pulling myself away from the door. I needed some fresh air. And I needed to call Sophia. Maybe she would have another lead for me concerning this password deal.

I exited the wells via the rope ladder hanging limply against the wall, feeling like I could relax a little more now that I was out in the fresh, clean Venetian sunlight amongst the begging pigeons of Campo San Polo. In reality though, there were far less enemies underground than there were above. Not like this fact disturbed me at all. I was a rebel to danger and the sunlight still comforted me.

Pager, Sophia, _come on, pick up…_ She always answered my calls before the second ring. By the third or fourth, I'd wandered over to the entrance to Club Micio, trying to act casual and like I actually belonged there.

"Posso aiutarti?" a man's voice came over the phone.

"Uh," I cleared my throat softly, not sure how exactly to reply. "Is Detective Leporace there?"

"Ah, Signora Nancy Drew? I recognize your voice." He had a rich Italian accent, but spoke English fluently. I recognized his voice too, and it only took a few seconds to place as one of the GdiF agents I communicated with during the stakeout at the Palazzo Orpello.

"I remember you as well, um…?"

"This is Officer Capello," he stated flatly. "If you're looking for Sophia, she is not here. She has gone to settle arraignments for tonight's uh…assemblage."

"Assemblage?"

"I'm afraid I cannot disclose any information to you at this time, signora." he replied immediately, sounding sort of irritated with me.

"Sophia didn't mention anything about this to me—"

"I'm sure you understand, signora." he cut me off, "As a detective, if nothing else."

I felt my eyebrows climb halfway up my forehead. Taking a breath. Leaning against the warm wrought iron fence which incarcerated the bright flowerbeds behind me.

"No offense intended, of course. You must understand." Officer Capello took a breath, still sounding annoyed but trying his level best not to show it. "I have to do my duty."

"I understand completely." I came back coolly, peeling my free hand away from the fence and pacing across the sun-bleached courtyard. "Please excuse me for prying. I also have to do my duty."

He cleared his throat. "I will tell Detective Leporace that you called."

"Thank you." I rolled my eyes and sat down on the edge of the fountain.

"But of course."

"And if you could make note that I would like to be informed in detail of this 'assemblage' as soon as possible, it would be appreciated."

There was a short pause. "I will let her know," came Officer Capello's curt reply, "Ciao, Nancy." And then a click.

I nodded slowly, pulling the pager away from my ear. "Something tells me he didn't right any of that down."

For a few minutes I just sat there on the edge of the fountain, running my hands—which were still a bit covered in slime—through the cool, gurgling water, then wiping them dry on my jeans.

 _Assemblage._ I kept tossing that word around in my mind. This sounded like another stakeout. I mean, it had to be. That's something that even another GdiF agent would swear not to speak of. I could tell by the way the word wound strings of tension inside my chest— _assemblage._

There was going to be another stakeout. Which meant that there was going to be another break-in. Tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 **Joe**

"Do it again."

"Okay," I slipped the deck of cards back into order, reversing the six of coins when he wasn't looking. Shuffling them to confuse. Then shoving them back into the faceless cardboard sleeve, sliding it across the green to his side of the table. "Keep an eye on that."

He nodded a little, staring at my hands. Half cynic, half horrified. But I was used to it, because that was how most people looked at me. That look—it used to get to me when I was a kid. I thought maybe I belonged on the streets or something. With my head down. Shuffling cards.

"So."

He raised an eyebrow, looking up with just his eyes.

I took a breath of the smoky mock oxygen. "You're a cynic."

The guy grunted. "You don't know anything about me."

I shrugged the slight smile off my face, taking the second deck of slightly-worn scopa cards in my hands, replacing the last card tossed asunder on the table. Riffling through the deck to find the six of coins. Bringing it to the top.

"I don't have to know anything about you to read your mind." I shuffled again. Keeping the six on top.

He shrugged, running his fingertips over the packaged deck on the table. Rings everywhere. "Perhaps not."

It was a nice complacent little lie, and something I had to go along with for obvious reasons. But the truth was, I knew everything about this guy. Michele Greco, five foot nine (barely), two-time college drop-out, didn't believe in Facebook (maybe because he assisted a crime ring? eh) and also wore mafia-looking stuff without realizing what a criminal he looked like. He had a solid (or shifty) job as doorman/security operations manager/scopa referee (but only on very rare and desperate occasions) at the Casa dei Giochi. He also had 'Adelina' tattooed on his arm and if I hadn't kind of fallen asleep during that in-depth background study ATAC jammed down my throat like anesthesia, I would've said, without a doubt, that it was one of his ex-girlfriends' names. So there he was, Michele Greco, looking at me all cynic-like while I shuffled and false cut the cards in my hands. Man, I didn't know _anything_ about this guy.

"Tell me when to stop." I leaned forward slightly on my elbows, secretly breaking the cards where I wanted to, then riffling down through the deck.

"Stop."

I quickly slid half of the deck out of the scene, flipping over the chunk in my hands to show him the random card he chose—or actually, the card _I_ chose.

"And it's the six of coins this time. Keep an eye on this now, and make sure I don't touch it." I peeled the card off the deck and dropped it face-up on the green.

He nodded again, throwing it a glance. Still looking horrified.

"There was no way for me to know what card you picked, right? Unless I could read your mind. But in this deck," I reached for the package of scopa cards, flicking open the cardboard and fanning the cards out on the table—face-up. "One will be turned upside-down…" The scrolled design of the reversed card stuck out from the rest like a sore thumb. I nodded towards the table. "And it'll be your card."

I didn't even have to tell the guy to pick it up and see—he knew the drill. I loved it. The card landed face-up on the green, next to its twin—but not without some kind of Italian cuss from Greco which, thankfully, I didn't understand.

"This is foolish." He stood up, fisting his rhinestone-studded hands on the table. "I'm through playing these games." Just like a cynic. Too proud to beg for an explanation.

I shuffled the fanned-out deck back into order. "Well this is the Casa dei Giochi, after all, yeah?"

The doorman rolled his eyes, annoyed with me. "I must return to my post."

"Ah, Signore Daniau, I see you're settling in quite effortlessly?" Enrico Tazza shouted/over-enunciated, sneaking up behind me and slamming one rough, meaty hand down on my shoulder. I tried to act like he didn't just freak me out.

"Uh-huh." I nodded quickly. "Effortlessly."

"Eccellente," Enrico Tazza nodded, looking at me sort of suspiciously through his mask, which threw a long, dark shadow across his jacket in the dim light. "So. I trust you have been well informed of your position here? For the time being, that is…"

"Of course." I shoved the rest of the scopa cards back into the package and rose from my chair at the table.

"Michele has spent the last hour instructing you in your duties, yes? The security equipment is a bit uh…outdated and can be quite a problem at times. And with recent events concerning certain inventory transportation, we cannot afford to let our guard down at all." Tazza lowered his voice to a tone below the others which mingled in the low-lit room. "If you make one mistake, it could cost you more than just your job."

I straightened up, taking a breath of the heavy, potent smoke/air. Not replying.

"But no matter," he laughed, giving my shoulder another reassuring smack. "I'm sure Michele has already gone over these things with you. Tell me—was he thorough?"

"Oh yeah," I coughed, half-sarcastic but dry enough to disguise it. "He definitely told me everything I need to know."

"Good." Tazza nodded, sounding dissatisfied. Glancing down to the decks of scopa cards on the table.

I cleared my throat softly. "We were just taking a break."

"A break?" he mumbled a laugh, looking down and taking from his jacket pocket a small pager. I watched his fingers, taking note of how he unlocked the screen. "A _break_ , I understand, is a time of recovery after energy has been exhausted to yield a reward." He slid the pager back into his pocket. "And that, my friend, will be the conclusion of tonight's mission."

"Right," I nodded slowly, turning to lean back against the card table slightly—a better position. "And speaking of tonight…I wanted to ask you a question."

Even through his mask, I could see Enrico's expression fall from neutral to negative. "Go on…"

"There was talk of additional security being needed at the palazzo tonight," I let the words come out slowly. "And I just wanted to remind you of my qualifications as—"

"The palazzo?"

 _Dang._

I just looked at him. Watching his eyes narrow as he lowered his voice again. "Which palazzo?"

My gaze fell to the ground for a moment. "Genovese?"

He punched the table. Like seriously—so hard and so suddenly that it actually freaked me out. I felt myself tense up.

"Zattere?" I guessed again.

"As a matter of fact, the undisclosed location is neither Zattere nor Genovese." Tazza growled the words, leaning forward slightly to bring his voice down to almost a whisper. "And I will thank you not to ask any more questions, Josiah. This game must be played by the rules. A pawn cannot challenge a knight on his own field, now can he?"

I brought my gaze up from the floor, knifing the slight smile before it could make its way to my face, as I eased the pager into my hand and slipped it into the pocket of my denim jacket.

"I'm afraid I'm not very good at playing by the rules."

"One can easily learn." He straightened up, metallic green mask throwing a warped profile against the painted wall. "To answer your question, no assistance or security extras will be needed on tonight's mission. You are needed here."

I nodded slowly. "I understand."

"Good."

"Is there a reason why I haven't been told of the location, though? I thought everyone knew—as a precaution."

Tazza shook his head slowly. "Very few of us know the location. Very few of us _need_ to know the location. There are many reasons why you cannot be informed."

"One of them being the fact that you don't trust me."

"Distrust has nothing to do with it," he muttered, shaking his head slowly. "I wouldn't take full confidence in any man I've barely known for twenty-four hours. I could list the reasons why, but unfortunately, I don't have that kind of time."

I nodded slowly, swallowing my pride and a hundred thousand questions. "Well in that case, I won't keep you."

Enrico Tazza just looked at me for a moment before turning and stepping out of the milky ring of light weeping down on that corner of the room.

 _Smooth as silk._

I kept my hands in my pockets, weaving through the chairs and the smoky shadows, finally making it to the front door and letting myself out of the Casa dei Giochi.

 _Ahh, clean air._ It felt good in my lungs. Everything else was sunlight and street noise and pigeons and the high-pitch scream of someone's vacuum in the third-floor apartment across the road. Benvenuto a Venezia.

I moved out of range of the security camera, stepping behind the corner of the building and leaning against the brick wall. Glancing around one last time to make sure I was the only one out there, I whipped the small touch screen device out of my pocket. (And no, I'm not going to tell you how I stole it.)

It was a pager, not a phone. And a really primitive-looking one at that. It took me a few seconds to even figure out how to turn the thing on. Reaching into the pocket of my jeans with my free hand, I unlocked my iPhone and sifted through the latest calls to find the number for the GdiF. It rang once. Thankfully the pager was too old to have a password lock system. I tapped the messenger icon. Another ring. Then—

"This is Sophia,"

"Hey. It's Joe."

"Have you discovered the location of tonight's theft?"

I refrained from answering with a blunt, "No" because I never reply to anything like that. "Uh, well I can definitely tell you that it _isn't_ going to be at Palazzo Genovese or Palazzo Zattere,"

Sophia sighed. "This is not an elimination game, Joseph."

I took a breath, lowering my voice a little. "I know."

There was a pause. While I scrolled through the messages on the pager in my hands. While Sophia thought/hated me.

"You must find a way to get in Tazza's confidence. He won't tell you any information unless he thinks that he can trust you…"

Now _there_ was something interesting—apparently Enrico was communicating with Gina "Scaramuccia" quite a bit. And based on their conversation, she seemed to be really involved in the planning of this next theft.

"I already tried that," I mumbled into the phone, scrolling down to the newest texts. "To no avail. And we're kind of running out of time."

"You know, Joseph, the GdiF thought it would be prudent to take you on for more of an in-depth investigation of what exactly is going on inside this crime ring. We're all trying to work together to get to the bottom of this."

I tried to pay attention to what she was saying as I scanned the text messages on the screen under my fingers.

"Your credentials were very good—and your references were even more impressive. But please, you must understand that just because there are quite a few of us working on this case, doesn't mean your position should be treated lightly, or less important..."

 _There it is._

 **SCARAMUCCIA: everything is arraigned. I have contacted Il Capitano and he will meet us at the Palazzo Orpello at 23:00 exactly. do not be late.**

 **TAZZA: and have you contacted Samantha Quick?**

 **SCARAMUCCIA: I did, as you requested. unfortunately she declined, most adamantly. she said she was otherwise engaged.**

 **TAZZA: that is a shame. we will have to do without her.**

"…So you see, we're dependent on you to gather this kind of—"

"It's the Palazzo Orpello."

"What?"

"The Palazzo Orpello. At eleven o'clock tonight."

"Are you positive?" Sophia sounded skeptical. "It wouldn't seem likely, because the Palazzo Orpello was the place that Nico was caught and arrested. Why would they return to the scene of attempted theft?"

I shrugged one shoulder, closing out of the messenger and locking the screen of the pager. "They know you guys are on their case. So maybe they thought going back to Orpello would throw you off."

"That is true…" she said, "It certainly wouldn't be the first place the GdiF would choose to stake out, considering recent events. You are absolutely sure of this location? We cannot afford misguidance."

"Positive."

"Good." Sophia finally started to sound sort of pleased. "You must come with them to the palazzo tonight. Your perspective will be helpful to us, in the near future if not immediately."

"What do you mean?"

She sighed. "I'm afraid I will not be able to equip you with a radio like the rest of the GdiF agents—it's too risky, in your position."

I nodded slowly. "Okay."

"But all the same, make sure you find a way into the Palazzo Orpello. Keep a close eye on them. If they will not take you along as assistance, then you must find a way to sneak in. The second floor of the palazzo will be rented for a pre-carnevele raccolta this evening. You must not be seen by any of the guests." Sophia paused to take a breath. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?"

"Detective Leporace, I seem to recall you saying once that my credentials were excellent."

"I said that they were very good—"

"And my references were even…?"

"…More impressive." Sophia laughed a little, lightly. She had the kind of laugh that you have to drag out by force—a quiet hostage not used to daylight. "I like you, Joseph Hardy. You have a way of getting what you want…without having to steal it."

* * *

Notes: Hello everyone and thank you for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story thus far. Please leave a review if you'd like! It would totally brighten my day.

 _FlightFeathers:_ _Welcome! I'm so glad to see you here and thank you for the review! Muahaha - it might have a darker undertone. We shall see. ;) Also, that makes me really happy that you can sense the writing style has developed! Thank you! :D Ugh, typos will be the end of me lol. I hope you enjoy this installment!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 **Nancy**

"Nancy, are you at your post?"

I was right in the middle of shoving my mess of a titian beast into a hair-tie, my hands fully occupied, neglecting the radio at my belt.

"Nancy?" Sophia's voice cracked over the speaker again. One hand went to my hip, unclasping the radio and speaking back into it, "Yes, Sophia, I'm on the lower altana."

"And you are well hidden, yes?"

"From the windows, yes."

"Good," she sighed quietly over the radio. "The back wall of the palazzo is adjacent to the street below, barricaded only by a fence. You may want to keep your post nearer the edge to give yourself a better view."

"Got it." I nodded quickly, ducking under an open window, which was casting dim, smoky light out onto the stone floor. The wall was a blunt drop into the darkness. I stole a glance down into the abyss of shadows and vines snaking their way up the side of the eroding wall. Lampposts stitched the street lines and charmed the city with a quiet light. The movement of the water reflected against the faces of the buildings. My breath clouded before my lips.

"Also be aware of the upper deck—above you."

I nodded again, running my fingers over my black jeans. Taking a step away from the wall. "Yes, I will."

"Tell us if you see anyone from where you are. Remember to keep your eyes open."

I took a breath, mumbling back, "I'm not convinced I have much of a choice."

Sophia didn't reply to that. She just muttered something in Italian to another agent over the radio.

The night was cool and dark. I checked my watch for the five billionth time. 10:48. I didn't want to tell Sophia that I actually just barely made it to my post in time—for her sake. I mean, she had enough on her mind that night without having to consider the possible eventuality of firing me. I smiled slightly, folding my arms over my chest in a futile attempt to lock in some of the heat. Leaning back against the terra cotta wall.

The stake out on the Palazzo Orpello was ago—operation full orchestra. I was told that there were seven other agents, besides myself, keeping themselves expertly hidden around the premises, some equipped with video cameras (of sorts.) I was not among them, of course. All I had in the world was a radio and a pocket knife—the latter which I was dearly hoping would not need to be touched.

Sophia's news of the stake out was a little sudden and surprising. Another theft at the Palazzo Orpello? Why would the crime ring even consider returning to the place where their "phantom thief" was arrested? It didn't make sense to me. What could be so valuable that deserved a second chance at being liberated? I had a million questions, none of which Sophia could answer.

So I waited in the dark, with my back against the wall. I could feel the cold biting through my tall black boots. And though my days in Venice had been a bomb of bright sunshine and spicy warmth enough to crave gelato, the nights sent me away with a chill, and the thin jacket—which was thrown hastily at me by one of the GdiF agents earlier—was hardly helping me to knife back the cold.

Maybe I should've reconsidered packing more clothes for this trip. It was something that Hannah adamantly urged me to do. "You always end up spending twice as much time on a trip than you'd first anticipated," she'd said, "Did you know that?" I told her yes, of course, but this trip was different. In most cases, I didn't even know that I was embarking on something other than a much-needed vacation. But this time, I knew well ahead that the GdiF was hiring me to assist with a case. Still, I had always been something of a minimalist packer. Hannah would sometimes sneak a warmer jacket or another pair of jeans into my suitcase. "But it's not as cold in Venice as it is in Illinois this time of year," I told her. I guess I was wrong, to a degree.

There was silence over the radio at my belt. Every once in a while, one of the agents would mutter something in Italian like, "Dietro l'albero," and "Dietro l'ombrella blu," but I couldn't see anyone from my post, so I tried to pay less attention to the voices and more to the darkened rooftop altana—glancing behind me at the upper roof from time to time.

I couldn't stop thinking about my last day at home. It had been a muted, gray morning, and I was sure that nobody but Hannah would be there to see me off—but I was wrong. That tall boy of the football team with darkish, short hair and the unzipped varsity jacket despite the January frostbite—he had been waiting on a bench in the airport. Smiling like if he had just escaped from some form of iron and chains.

Stepping closer to the edge of the altana, I glanced down the back wall again. All was clear. Navy and gold, a watery paint job from the lights in the river. I went back to my previous position, against the wall. Taking a shallow breath, not allowing too much cold into my lungs. Glancing up at the light pollution dumped across the starry sky.

His name was Ned Nickerson, and I'd only known him for a few months. The introduction felt forced and uncomfortable, and it took a bit of time to get past. If I could possibly disappoint a friend as sincere and kindhearted as Bess Marvin, I would say that the whole thing was a ridiculous scheme she had cooked up in attempt to fling me at "the most desired and adorable and outgoing guy I could possibly date."

Nickerson was a jock, clearly. The first impression was gelled hair and university poster boy. I enjoyed his company, but I didn't feel any fireworks. According to Bess, we were "absolutely perfect for each other" and I "couldn't possibly ask for anything more in a guy" than the kindhearted boy that Nickerson seemed to be. Honestly, I thought he could be a good friend. But nothing more.

A sudden burst of laughter from the front windows of the palazzo startled me out of my thoughts. I felt myself jump, then glanced around in the dark. Alone. The soft Italian voices broke through the static on my radio again, a quiet PSA of the agents' locations.

Nickerson had given me a locket just before I'd boarded my plane. It was bright and simple with a thin chain. We had talked for at least an hour, at a small table in the airport's Starbucks while waiting for eight o'clock to arrive. He'd said that he wished I wasn't leaving for a trip so soon, that he'd wanted to spend more time together and get to know me more. I should've been neutral to the idea, but instead I felt like a confused little girl in an itchy dress. It wouldn't have been proper if I hadn't agreed and shown an equal amount of interest. I hated the way things had to be done. I wished that etiquette was a beast to be slaughtered by the sane and focused among us. But it wasn't.

A rustling of leaves below. The quiet, shuffling noise that I'd been expecting. I crept over to the wall, glancing down. It was so dark, but from what I could see, there wasn't any movement beyond that of the occasional passerby on the street. My cold, damp hands fell across the building's aged skin of terra cotta again. It was probably nothing—just my overactive imagination.

Everyone wanted Ned Nickerson and I to be an item. Apparently they saw me as an indifferent canvas of society, ready for a prescription of normality, general complacency and a healthy dose of average female suffering—taken with a teaspoon of sugar in the form of a kiss on the forehead, a locket slipped around my neck and a soft-spoken farewell. A "see you later, love" was sure to help the medicine go down. As for my own opinion, I wasn't ready to be an object of flirtation. But my opinion, I was starting to learn, could be easily overpowered.

The voice of a fiddle sung out from somewhere distant, I could hear the music cut the night like a scalpel. I exhaled, watching my breath embody itself on the cold and melt back into the shadows. The fiddler continued to bravely play, and I listened, with my back still against the wall.

Hannah had encouraged me to keep in touch with Ned Nickerson, even on my case. I was to make an effort to do this, because apparently it was a matter of great delicacy. I felt like we were living in the eighteen hundreds. In some subconscious sense, I was actually glad that my locket had been stolen by the phantom. It had become a subtle reminder of the obligations I had locked my heart into, just to behave as I was expected to. I didn't want to bend under the weight of others' opinions—but I found my mind as weak as the chaff in the wind.

I hadn't called Ned in a few days. Hannah wouldn't have approved of my tardiness, but I was working on a case and that was a perfect excuse. I was beginning to succeed at loosening the chains, just a little. The coward's key to her jail cell. I wanted to tell him how I really felt—I wanted to tell everyone how I really felt—but I couldn't.

I wasn't ready for anything. I wished that people could just stop misinterpreting looks and smiles and laughs and hugs and words. I wished that people could just leave things alone—be they hearts and souls or late night conversations over the phone. Nothing had to be at all confusing—people just made it that way. And I was sick of it. Not that I would ever admit my feelings to anyone.

I paced across the terra cotta, my thoughts drifting back to the password on the locked door. How could it possibly be wrong? I hadn't gotten a chance to tell Sophia about the safe room, yet—and the longer I waited, the less appealing that idea sounded. I wanted to report breakthroughs, not confusion. New leads, not dead ends. Locked doors weren't my only weakness—my pride claimed a good part of that field. Sure, I asked my friends for hints on cases all the time, but hints were different. They were like riddles, and that was something my pride could contend with. But to walk away from a locked door with no idea of what to do next—that felt a great deal like defeat.

Shoes. I heard them hit the ground above. I tore around in the darkness, eyes darting across the spider legs of the untamed plants that were suffocating the tables and chairs. It was a quiet, soft thump. The sound of two feet landing from a low jump on the dusty stone roof. Above me? I couldn't tell—it was so dark. I let out the breath I didn't realize I'd imprisoned in my lungs, taking a shallow step backwards, brushing past the arms of a potted arbor.

Footsteps. Behind me? I spun around, suddenly realizing that I was at the end of the altana. There was nothing more than a few urns, staged precariously on the edge of the wall, and a steep, neglected stairway to my right, which led to the garden below.

For a still, quiet moment I stood in the shadows of the plant life and tried to calm my heart, which was beating much too fast. I considered using my radio to tell Sophia that I'd heard something—but then, it wasn't exactly a news item. It was just footsteps. But who could be out on the altana with me? Or even the upper deck? Certainly not a mindless guest from the roccolta inside the palazzo, from whence the music and intoxicated laughter was escaping.

I shifted my weight around in my tall boots, surveying the dark again. Listening hard. _Footsteps._ Quiet and irregular. Discreet. But where were they coming from? I pulled in another breath, shaky. _Footsteps._ Quiet and irregular and…careful. Muted by the plant life surrounding me. Surrounding _us_. They were behind me. On the altana. _Right_ behind me. I wanted to turn around, but suddenly I felt paralyzed from the waist down. And my heart gave one last fevered thump before it dropped into my stomach.

Because that's when a gloved hand closed over my mouth.

"Don't you dare make a sound."

* * *

Notes: Hey y'all! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. :) By the way, I'll be keeping a regular posting schedule of Mondays and Thursdays. Thank you so much for reading!

 _FlightFeathers:_ _Muahahaha, yes! There is even more action to come, so stay tuned! Yay, I'm so happy you liked this chapter! And that Joe is in character. That makes me super happy. :) I hope you liked this installment!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 **Joe**

I wasn't supposed to be there. But that was the story of my life.

It was almost eleven o'clock and the palazzo was dark. Shadows secreting bits of light. Laughter and fiddle music from somewhere and damp footsteps of valets roaming the lower garage. My breath stuck to the cold. I stopped against one of the brick walls to finish pulling my fingerless gloves onto my hands.

I had absolutely no idea where to start. I was supposed to be keeping track of Tazza, Il Capitano, and whoever else was here to help them with the theft. But there was just one little hitch: I had no idea where any of them were. Sophia couldn't give me anything else to go on. She said that getting the information was my job. Well, yeah it was but...I don't know. You can't argue with somebody from the GdiF. I wasn't used to working for any other organization besides ATAC—and I practically _owned_ ATAC.

So there I was, keeping still in the shadow of a potted tree, feeling like I was crashing and burning before I'd even started. Feeling stupid, like I was still a scrawny little kid with dirty converse and blood on my face from getting beat up on the bus. I still had dirty converse, and the tracking device in my pocket didn't make me feel any more confident.

One of the agents had given it to me because apparently it was going to lead them to the thief. I didn't know who came up with this brilliant plan, but it wasn't going to work. Sophia said she was going to be able to track my exact location, and my job was to find the thief (whomever that was) and hang out with them. Then the GdiF would be able to intervene in the act of the theft and catch the culprit red-handed. If anything went wrong during the apprehension, then it was my job to turn on the thief and assist in seizing them. The system was deeply flawed and none of it was going to work. But you can't argue with somebody from the GdiF. So instead I said sure. I'll make it happen.

And so far? I was _not_ making it happen. Sophia had told me something seriously alarming just hours before the stake out—apparently there were agents hiding out in the palazzo. Yeah, that's fine, I said, but she was like, no, not just a couple of agents—eight of them. And they would be constantly changing locations for protection. And I didn't know where any of them were. And I was expected to make my way through the palazzo as discreetly as possible without accidentally stumbling in on any of their secret hiding places and scaring the crap out of them. It was kind of a tall order, but I wasn't about to back down or go cry to Mommy.

There was an upper deck on the palazzo overlooking the altana and pretty much everything else. It would be hard to access without taking the front stairs, so I doubted that anyone would be meeting up there. Still, it was a good place to orient myself and start searching.

The back wall of the palazzo was covered in overgrowth. Plants everywhere, climbing up the bungled brick wall like mad escapees. I followed their lead, cautiously peeling their leafy hands away from the wrought iron fence, feeling along the wall with my free hand, looking for decent footholds. _There._ I stopped, listening for a few seconds before parting the damp vines away from the brick and getting a hold on the wall with my hands and feet. I assumed the wall was going to be easy to climb, and I was right. In less than five minutes, I was pulling myself over the edge of the rooftop. My converse hit the ground.

I froze for a second, listening to the dark and scanning the rooftop. Everything was shadows. Lights and none. Water reflecting sporadically. Suffocating stars. Footsteps. I pulled myself out of the glance of a streetlight, listening, looking. Where were they? Below me. I couldn't see anyone on the rooftop with me. Where could Tazza be meeting Gina? The altana looked abandoned and totally disconnected from the party inside of the rented palazzo. This roof was too open. In a second, someone was going to spot me. I had to get out of there.

Moving to the edge of the rooftop as noiselessly as possible, I somehow avoided tripping over wayward vines and scaled down the short wall. My converse hit the dusty floor again. There were way more plants down here. It was hard to tell what was moving and what was static in the shadows. Everything came to me in whispers. Then footsteps, again. Quiet ones. I started to remember the GdiF agents that were hiding everywhere. _It might not be anyone from the gang_ , I told myself. _It could just be one of the agents switching hiding places._

But there couldn't have been anyone out on the altana with me. Nobody would post an agent up there—you couldn't see anything. So I proceeded through the dark, expecting nothing to emerge from the shadows.

Silence again. The fiddle stopped playing. Water. Cars. No sound of footsteps. I guessed that I misheard. Realizing that I was at the opposite end of the altana, I turned and cautiously stepped out from behind a potted arbor.

And that's when I saw someone _right there_. Standing two feet away with their back to me. I jumped a little, but reacted quick enough to do the normal thing. Which was to grab the person and clasp one hand over their mouth. As soon as my fingers locked over the small shoulders, they tensed up. Thin jacket. Silky hair. Something that smelled like coconuts and vanilla. I braced her body against mine and let my gloved hand lock over her mouth.

"Don't you dare make a sound."

There were a brief few seconds of dead silence. Her warm, shaky breath touching my cold fingers. Before I could think of what to do next, the girl broke out of my hold, twisted around and kicked me in the stomach. Then she bolted for the stairs.

 _Dang it!_ She had freaking iron for legs. I felt like doubling over and dying, right there. But instead I jumped forward, reached down and grabbed her arm, trying to drag her back up the stairs. She struggled, then looked up at me for a split second and I could see through the dull, foggy light around us—blue eyes. Incredibly blue. She ripped out of my hold, which had suddenly loosened for some reason, and bolted again.

I tried to stop her, but I couldn't. My hand slipped and caught on something clipped to her belt—something small and plastic. It tore off and smashed to the ground. And then she was gone. Spirited away by the thick shadows of the garden below. I stopped halfway down the stairs, leaning against the dusty brick wall. Trying to catch my breath. Bracing my free hand against my probably bruised ribs.

Who was she? I felt around on the step with the toe of my dirty converse. _There it was._ I reached down and felt again, and my hand closed around the device. It was chunky, cheap plastic. I flipped it over in my hand. A radio. Primitive, of course, but from the GdiF. So she _was_ an agent.

I exhaled a short, awestruck breath—it escaped my lungs without consent and clouded up in the cold. A quiet sort of rebel smile wouldn't stop tormenting me. I leaned back against the wall, glancing up at the stars again for a second.

 _Who was she?_

Man, I needed to focus on this mission. I was already in deep shit. Yeah, I'd climbed that wall with the best of intentions. Sophia wouldn't be impressed. So far I hadn't found any of the people that I was supposed to. Instead I'd succeeded in doing exactly what I _wasn't_ supposed to do—bumping into one of the agents and scaring the crap out of her. I totally would've kept the whole thing to myself, but now that girl was going to go cry to Sophia and get me fired. I had to pull off something to bandage this mess. Like find Il Capitano.

Ignoring the acute pain in my stomach, I pocketed the radio and got myself up the stairs. What was my plan, here? At first I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do. This palazzo wasn't huge, but it was definitely going to be a challenge to cover. My only saving grace would be…voices.

Quiet ones, almost whispered, from somewhere close by. Not above or below me, but muffled. They couldn't be out on the altana with me. They were definitely separated by a wall.

I vanished behind one of the columns, listening closer. Indistinct. I stepped closer to the upper entrance of the palazzo—which was just a door with two hewn open windows on either side. Voices again. Quiet. Cautious. I made it to the wall, dropping to my knees and leaning back against the cold terra cotta.

"Silenzio!" one of the voices hissed—I could recognize it immediately as Enrico Tazza. "Remember your role here, signore. Mine is the task to secure suitable positions for those with the lesser authority."

There was a short silence. While I tried not to breathe.

"Continue, then," said another voice—one I'd never heard before.

"This discussion should not be continued here, I feel." Tazza refused. "I will only say one more thing on the matter, and that is this—" He brought his voice down more. "Do not underestimate Samantha's abilities. She is a novice, yes—even as a graduate of the Doppler Institute—and no one trusts her. But I have personally worked with Samantha more than any of you have. Her abilities will be very useful to us. They _are_ very useful to us."

Another silence.

"I'm sure they are," a female voice this time—Gina? "But I believe Il Capitano is simply pointing out the fact that we can't afford to be…carelessly transparent with an agent of whom we know so little." That voice—it was so familiar, in a vague sense. Like something from a dream.

"Transparency is something that I would _never_ handle carelessly." Tazza countered, sounding ticked. "Now. Abbastanza. This conversation is going nowhere. In any case, we did not meet to discuss Signora Quick."

 _Signora Quick… Samantha Quick._ I slowly let out a shallow breath, leaning back against the wall underneath the stone-hewn window. Of course, _Samantha._ Like a blurry smudge in an old photo, she was a mystery in and of herself. Odd looks and raised eyebrows were surfaced with her name and nobody really knew much about her. They said she was a thin frame of five foot four with blonde hair and blue eyes and a Scandinavian complexion. They said she'd graduated from the Doppler Institute for Independent Industrial Arts with flying colors and was even considered their "star pupil"—and I'd learned enough about the international spy academy to know that this was kind of a big deal. This girl was at the front of her class and at the top of her game. But other than that, nobody really knew her. She was a mystery. And I was dying to meet her.

"Well I'm afraid I cannot let the discussion end without saying this," Il Capitano spoke up after a second. "If I were you, I would play my cards carefully with Signora Quick. She may be experienced and talented, but we are all in this for ourselves, not each other. Remember that."

There was a moment of silence, where I imagined Tazza was giving Il Capitano a dirty look.

Gina cleared her throat softly. "As for your other agents, I cannot say I approve of some of your choices."

"Scusami?" Enrico sounded disgusted.

"Well it's true," she continued, "Though time may be of the essence, you're rash decisions could get you in trouble. However, being so proud a man, you wouldn't consider asking the advice of someone with a better understanding of the availabilities in our field."

"Someone with a better understanding?" Tazza repeated the words. "Someone like you?"

Silence.

"You have your hands deep enough in my business, Gina. As Antonio said earlier, we're all in this for ourselves. Including you."

Tazza paused to take a breath. "And though I may be a proud man, my decisions are not rash. My agents are very well-investigated."

"Really?" Gina scoffed, "All of them? Even Josiah Daniau?"

I recognized my alias right away—and my heart dropped into my stomach.

"I daresay you could've done a little more research on that boy, Tazza. He has American spy institute written all over him. Trained like a sniper but chained like a cop, fresh from a governmental school in bed with the police force—"

"Enough, Gina—"

"Would you have us all arrested, Tazza?"

"I said, enough!" his voice echoed in the hallway, then a few seconds later he brought it back down to a whisper. "Josiah Daniau has been promised _nothing_ , understand? He would be considered 'on trial' in less-intimate circles. Confidence and trust takes time to build…"

Il Capitano murmured something in agreement.

"So you're saying you didn't give Josiah a position?"

"No, he has a position. Of sorts." Another pause, while everyone (including me) waited for Tazza to continue. "He is temporarily helping Greco in security."

"Security?" Gina laughed. A mumbled sort of Carmen San Diego laugh. "And you thought that was prudent? On a night like this?"

"Yes, in fact, I did. Besides, he's not alone. Greco is there, and will keep him out of any trouble." Tazza took a breath to add, "And you would've approved of my decision, if you knew how he was trying to convince me to bring him _here_ tonight."

"Here?"

"Mm."

My heart started beating faster. Palms sweating under my fingerless gloves, despite the cold.

"And you see nothing suspicious in that measure?" Gina stepped closer to the window—I could tell by her voice and her footsteps. She was wearing heels.

"No." Tazza said finally.

"Then perhaps your newest protégé is not as innocent as you think, Tazza. And perhaps you're not as tactful as I once thought." she lowered her voice—right next to the window. "What makes you think this boy does what he is told to do?"

 _He doesn't._

"What makes you think he's back at the Casa dei Giochi? What makes you think he's harmlessly watching the feedback of security cameras right now?"

Another pause. Long enough to kill something.

"What makes you think he didn't follow you here?" She breathed a soft, mocking laugh. "My God, Tazza. What foolish assumptions you make."

I swallowed a lead weight, feeling the adrenaline start to pick up in my veins.

Enrico scoffed quietly, sounding sarcastic. "Ah, so now this is back to being a matter of my own poor judgment?"

Gina ignored that comment. "If I were you, I'd check in with your security overseer and…confirm Signore Daniau's whereabouts."

 _Dang. I'm screwed._

"Very well—I will check in with Greco right now," he sighed, typing into his pager which made a telltale beeping noise. "And we will put to death your little theory—once and for all." He finished typing in the number, then walked towards the door—yeah, the one that I was crouched right next to. "Excuse me a moment." Tazza stepped out onto the altana, scanning the shadows for listeners.

But I wasn't there. In fact, at that point I was scaling down the back wall like a madman, ripping down some plant life and almost slipping a few times. My dirty converse hit the ground and I ran. Through the shadows, to the back gate—but it was locked tight. Since I didn't have time to break the thing, I decided to jump the fence and tear through the streets as discreetly as possible—with my black jeans, hoodie, fingerless gloves, and bruised ribs. No, I wasn't really what you'd consider an American spy institute poster child. But at least I could run. Fast.

In two minutes and thirty seconds, my hands slammed into the back door at the Casa dei Giochi. I tried the handle—locked.

" _No_ —no, no, no, no, no," I gasped feverishly. Man, I didn't have time to screw with this thing. I grabbed my pocket knife and flipped it open, jabbing it right into the keyhole and twisting hard. The lock was so cheap, it pretty much crumbled in my hands. _Score_. I threw the broken pieces to the ground and shoved the door open, stepping into the low-lit room. It slammed behind me.

"What do you think you're doing?" A thick, ring-studded hand grabbed my arm.

I twisted around, not knowing what to do with the open knife in my hands. "Did you see this door?"

Greco just looked at me for a second. "What?"

"This door." I slipped my other hand behind my back and closed up the knife. "It's, like, completely busted."

He scoffed in disgust, dropping my arm. "What on earth are you talking…"

By this point I'd reached out and swung open the door, motioning sufficiently towards the dismantled lock on the pavement. Greco took a long look at it, then examined the door—while I pocketed my knife again.

"How could this have happened?"

I shrugged. "No idea. I just happened to be doing a premises check, and when I came back, it looked like that."

"A premises check?" He scoffed a sort of annoyed laugh, letting the broken door slam shut. "Tazza just called to check in and see where you were."

"Did he now?" I tried to bite back a smile. "I'm touched."

Greco rolled his eyes. "Maybe I should be the one doing premises checks from now on, Daniau." He shoved me towards one of the security booths. "You get back to your post."

"Fine with me." I crashed into the black swivel chair, trying not to let the obvious smile show. Greco just watched me from the doorway for a second, then grunted and went back to his post.

 _Man that was close._

I blew out a sigh, letting myself collapse deeper into the swivel chair. Closing my eyes for a split second and catching my breath. Ribs still sore.

 _Who was she?_

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _Hehe, yes. I kind of feel bad for Ned, too. BUT JOE. :') EEEP YAY I'm so happy you liked that last chapter! And that you thought Nancy's thoughts cutting in and out felt alright. I wasn't sure about that part when I wrote it. I hope the suspense hasn't killed you! Muahaha. ;) Enjoy this chapter! And thank you for reading, as always._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 **Nancy**

Dawn was a disobedient child who was accustomed to breaking through the windows and tackling me in my most vulnerable state with ravishing rays of harsh yellow. Today was no different. Another sunny morning a Venezia. Not that I was complaining. Gray days made me feel unfocused, so I was grateful for the blinding light, and the cool, clashing shadows. The way the sun warmed my hair.

I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, unaware of the time. I couldn't stop thinking about last night. The stakeout. The hand over my mouth and the chilling whisper in my ear. Who was he? I had no idea. Not one of the agents, I was sure of that. But was he part of the gang? I'd seen his eyes, just for a moment. They were incredibly blue. And shocked.

I'd fled down the stairs and into the garden, literally crashing into Officer Capello, who'd made some snark comment in Italian before asking me what the heck was I doing? I can't remember how I'd explained my feverish behavior—I don't think I did. Officer Capello had switched hiding places and left me in the garden alone. That's when I realized that my radio was missing. I must've dropped it somehow in my flight from the altana.

When the stakeout was concluded, we'd all left in shifts. I never got a chance to talk to Sophia again. I'd pushed the task of calling her to the back of my mind and crashed into bed at 1:25 AM, thankfully not waking Helena who had undoubtedly been snoring for hours. I didn't fully look back on the night before until dawn had fractured herself against the sky and I was left staring up at the glossy painted ceiling.

I'd kicked him in the stomach, as hard as I could. And for whatever reason, this reconsidered thought brought a little touch of a smile to my lips. Because it was funny, in some inhuman sense—although the entire situation was anything but amusing. I'd told Sophia that I would be aware of my surroundings. Focused, alert. I was supposed to be catching the phantom—the phantom wasn't supposed to catch _me_. To be totally honest, I was ashamed of what happened. I was embarrassed by it. And the very last thing I wanted to do was talk about it—with anyone. But then, that guy could've been the thief. It would go against my duty to withhold any information.

I pulled myself out of bed, feeling like my thoughts were beginning to chain me there. Dragging my hands through my long, messy hair, letting them rest on my shoulders as I exhaled softly into the bright swirls of dusty nothing. Then I looked down, something on the floor catching my eye.

It was an envelope, shot under the crack in the door. And it had my name on it. I stooped down and picked it up, trying to place the handwriting—I couldn't. It didn't look at all familiar to me. Thumbing open the unsealed flap, I let the ill-fitting slice of lined notepaper fall out into my sticky palms. Opening it up to find two short lines typed in a generic sans-serif font.

 _Let's see how good of a detective you are._

 _Who am I?_

I stared in fascination at the note in my hands, reading it over a few times. I didn't know what it was, or whom it was from. Flipping the paper over, I looked around for another clue as to whom it could be from—but discovered nothing.

"What on earth…? Hm."

I couldn't afford distraction. The day was begging me to focus. So I folded the slice of paper back up, shoved it into the envelope and tucked it under my pillow—just in case my journalist roommate stooped to snooping through my things. Then I took a shower. The morning called for skinny jeans and light layers. I quickly dressed into something simple and pocketed a handful of bobby pins before letting myself out into the lobby.

The door slammed. A clock ticked. The sharpish draft from outside blew past the poorly-hung sheets of plastic over the torn-up end of the room, where a new unfinished mosaic was pulled apart like an unfortunate toad for a school project.

"Ah, Nancy." Helena's airy voice pulled my thoughts and gaze from the dissected tesserae. "I zought you would never wake up."

The comment had kind of a rude edge, and I childishly wanted to come back with something honest like, "No unfortunately for you, I'm still very much alive." but I didn't. Instead I just gave a little annoyed smile and changed the subject.

"I see there's a new mosaic over here," I wandered across the room to the arky wooden table, feeling around in the pile of tesserae.

"Ah yes," Helena set down her pen. "Margherita has hired a new refinisher to uh…replace her former…enthusiast." she decided on the words with a coy smile. "I suppose you miss him, poor zing. But I assure you Nancy, he did not deserve your time or your attention."

I turned around to face her, letting the chunk of green tessera fall from my fingers. "What?"

"You know," My roommate rolled her eyes a little, shifting herself to look at me. "Colin. Justin. Whatever you want to call him."

"I never… _liked_ Justin in that way," I stated. "I tried to be helpful to him. I didn't want to see him get caught up in trouble again, that's why I wish Margherita had decided to keep him on."

Helena's face started to fall back to neutral—even a little irritated, maybe. I couldn't tell.

"Justin may have had feelings towards me at one time, but he knew that I never returned them. And besides." I ran my fingers through my silky hair, which was still a bit damp, thanks to the ill-tempered hairdryer I'd found in the bathroom. "You and Justin both know—I have a boyfriend."

"Yes, yes, I know." Helena came back with the reaction that I'd been hoping for—unabridged boredom. She turned back around to face her journals again, and freed me from any further conversation. I escaped through the front door.

Perhaps it was childish, uncalled for, and properly considered a full-bodied lie among more sensible people, but I'd made it a habit to tell everyone I encountered who prodded for details about my personal life, that "I have a boyfriend." It was a lie. A harmless one, if you can believe that such a toothless beast exists. It got me out of questions, tight situations, and repelled (to a certain degree) guys like Justin who thought they could win my auto-immune tyrant of a heart.

So what if everyone thought I had a boyfriend, even though I didn't? Cases demanded that I live a life of constant pretend and deceit. I'd become an expert at the game of illusion. Casting myself a role, crafting myself a mask, and playing my cards effortlessly. I'd rehearsed every move in my soul, in my sleep. It was second nature to me. But like a gentle dose of daily poison, the simple little lie had already started to gradually callous a corner of my heart. I noticed when it blistered—but now I couldn't feel a thing. Just a dull sort of rub. Like a small shoe.

I told myself that I didn't care. I _didn't_ care. I wasn't the sort of girl to depress herself into an oil slick of loneness and verbal misery. I had my thoughts, my heart, my eyes, and a brain inside my head that everyone deemed bright and somewhat dangerous. So I didn't need a guy.

The patio was a wind-swept streak of sunlight. I moved down the steps, getting out of the shadows and into the warmth. There was a fresh newspaper on the table, next to a small rectangular box of chocolates, addressed to Il Dottore. I took the chocolates and glanced at the article on the front page of the Venetian Daily. The bold serif font boasted the headline: **"IL FANTASMA" PLEADS GUILTY – AND TELLS ALL.**

I snapped up the paper in my free hand, scanning the first few lines of the article.

 **SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 4th - after endless questioning, Nico Petit, assumed "phantom" thief, spilled information to the police out of what seemed to be desperation. "They told me to never ask questions," Petit explained late on Thursday night, "All they ever told me was the identity of the piece I was commissioned to steal – what it looked like, where I would find it. And then they would give me a card." When one of the officers asked him, "What did the card say?" Petit replied, "It didn't say anything." He refused to expound further on this, or anything else, despite the pressing questions that ensued.**

I threw the paper back down on the table, looking up. I couldn't believe this! Thursday night, Nico started spilling information about the crime ring and his involvement in the recent thefts and I didn't know about it? Surely Sophia and the GdiF knew of every development. Why didn't she tell me? By this point, I was through with putting off communication with her. It was time for a much-needed phone call.

Swiping my pager out of my pocket, I tapped the phone icon and listened as it rang into oblivion. By the time Sophia picked up, I'd drifted out of the Ca entrance and was loitering on the sidewalk by the leftover rubble from the fallen earthen pot.

"This is Sophia,"

"Nico spilled his guts to the police—and you didn't _tell_ me?" Yep, I was legitimately ticked. "I wouldn't have even known about this at all if I hadn't just seen it in today's newspaper!"

There was a moment of silence, which spat in my face like a spoiled child and informed me that I was being so unprofessional.

"Nancy." Sophia finally spoke up, her voice mellow. "I have a duty to the GdiF. You have a duty to the GdiF as well."

I let out an irritated sigh, leaning back against the wall.

"My duty is to stay in contact with you, and inform you of recent developments and updates on this particular case." Sophia said. "Your duty is to wait for word of these developments and perform the tasks that you are given. I thought you agreed that this was a position you could handle—"

"It is, I just—"

"Good."

I let my eyes shut for a moment, taking a breath before opening my mouth again. "I'm just really curious, and I feel that I have a right to know… Why did you not tell me when Nico pleaded guilty and started admitting information about the crime ring? Surely _that_ was a development. Surely _that_ should've been brought to my attention."

"The reporters, they are…as you say, a 'fly on the wall' of every police station in Venice. Though the GdiF has direct ties to the law enforcement, there is no way for public information such as this to be kept a secret." Sophia paused to take a short breath. "We found out this update on Nico at roughly the same time as the newspapers did."

"Which was yesterday." I stated.

Silence.

"If I'm remembering correctly," I continued, "you just told me that you have a duty to the GdiF, and that is to inform me of any developments and—"

"If _I'm_ remembering correctly, your position is beneath mine. Do you understand, Nancy?" Her voice took on a bitter edge that did not become her usually soft-spoken Italian. "You would do well to remember your place."

I was shocked by her words. I wanted to ask, "When did the business of righting wrongs and nailing justice become a play house hierarchy?" But I didn't. Instead I just sighed and said, "Fine. Whatever."

Sophia took a deep breath, probably trying to level any irregularity in emotions, which was obviously a great threat to her delicately-balanced professionalism.

"As for the information Nico provided to the police," Sophia continued, "We have information that they do not possess. For instance, Nico mentioned that those who commissioned him to steal would give him the identity of the piece, its location, and then they would 'give him a card.' What the police force does not know, is what kind of card. They think, perhaps, a simple note. But Nico said that the card did not say anything. I think you and I both know to what kind of card he was referring—based on past discoveries."

I nodded. "A scopa card."

"Exactly."

"And we know that Il Capitano—Antonio Fango—is the one doling out the scopa cards." I said. "They keep disappearing from his file cabinet."

"Mm-hmm," Sophia murmured in agreement. "But what we don't know is whom Fango is getting his instructions from. This crime ring—it is a game of position. And Fango is not on top. By the way he interacts with Tazza, there is reason to believe that his orders come from the Casa dei Giochi."

I thought about this for a second. _The way he interacts with Tazza?_

"I…don't recall ever hearing or seeing Antonio Fango ever interact with Enrico Tazza." My voice came out sounding confused. "Has another agent picked up something that I…wasn't told of?"

Silence.

"Uh...I-I mean that um…the meetings conducted at Casa dei Giochi are…they seem to be of higher importance than any of the behavior observed at…the Argon building."

I blinked, noting the uneasy tone of Sophia's voice, but not asking any questions. Yet.

"So, Nancy. I need to talk to you about the stakeout."

"Okay," I switched the pager to my other ear, turning and pacing the small strip of sidewalk in front of the Ca. "What _about_ the stakeout?"

"I lost communication with you last night…at some point." Sophia sighed. "And were it not for Officer Capello assuring me that he knew of your whereabouts, I would have suspected that you'd fallen into danger."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that. I uh, dropped my radio."

There was a moment of silence.

"That is not good—someone may find it." She took a little breath before continuing. "Well, what do you have to report from the stakeout? Did you see anything? Anyone? Did you hear anything suspicious?"

I stopped pacing, a chill of a memory whispering back to me. Drops of adrenaline. Faint spearmint. As fresh as if the hand had just slipped over my mouth.

 _Don't you dare make a sound._

I pulled in a breath, trying to ignore the slight tremble in my fingers as I played around in my drying hair.

"No," the words fell flat, sounding soft. "No, nothing at all."

"Are you sure?"

I closed my eyes for a second. "Yes."

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: I'm so glad you liked the last chapter! Haha I know right? Nancy's scent is totally going to give her away one of these days. xD Gina is Scaramuccia, the person who communicates with Fango and does the dead drops for Nancy in the game. :) Not much happened in this installment, but I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading, as always. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 **Joe**

That morning was two obnoxious phone calls at an ungodly hour. I didn't actually know what time it was, because the complementary clock nailed up on the wall was dead—and probably geared with leaking, poisonous batteries from the dark ages—so I didn't mess with it. I didn't even glance at the time on my phone as it started ringing into oblivion, vibrating across the dusty green tile floor. I just rolled over and picked it up, trying to sound as alert as possible.

"Hello?"

"Ah, Josiah." I could tell just by the "ah." He did it every time—it was almost strange.

"Mm-hmm. Need something?"

Ow. Everything was sore. Why didn't I get a real hotel room?

Tazza cleared his throat, then said, "Yes, in fact. I would like you to be at the Casa dei Giochi by seventeen o'clock."

I quickly did the math in my head—that meant five tonight. I sighed, glancing around the cold, empty office building room that I'd decided to stay in because, A, it was across the hall from Il Capitano's office (which was another level of creepy) and B, I was too cheap to get a real hotel room. Or maybe poor is a better word. Yeah. Poor. Woe is me.

"Okay," I held back a yawn. "Security stuff?"

"No."

My eyes actually opened at this.

"I have contacted Signora Quick and made arrangements for her to come to the Casa dei Giochi this evening for an introductory sort of…interview."

 _Samantha Quick?_ I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't feel my pulse bump up a little at the mention of her name.

"An interview? Why?" I managed to keep my voice at neutral, even though I was far more awake at this point.

"Because we are going to be including her more in future work and thus we should learn all that we can about her. And you, also, should get to know her better. I trust that you will be able to extract as much information as possible with as little transparency as possible."

"Me." I sounded like I was fourteen. And I didn't even say it like a question.

"Yes, you. Is that a problem?"

"Uh, no—no. Not…at all. No." I cleared my throat. "I'm just…kind of surprised, that's all." I was sitting up at this point, letting my free hand tangle through my messy hair. "Are you sure I should be the one to interview her?"

Man, I hated to ask that question—because I didn't want him to rethink the whole thing and change his mind. The idea of talking to Samantha in person, face-to-face—it scared the crap out of me. But at the same time, I couldn't wait.

"Yes, I think you are just the person for the job. And you do not doubt your own ability, yes?"

"Yes. I mean, no." It was a trick question, I think. "I'll be fine."

"Hm." He sounded dissatisfied with my awkward comeback.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, is that all for now?"

"No, one more thing."

"Kay." I pulled my head out of my hands, looking across the dirty room to the slightly busted oak door. So far everything I'd encountered in Venice was either deteriorating or broken.

"For security reasons, we are going to be implementing a requirement for the members of the Casa dei Giochi. Everyone must be masked during communication with other members. Anyone—including yourself—who does not already wear a mask, must conform to these ways. Starting now."

"Are you serious?"

Silence.

"Uh, I mean, okay. Whatever." I shrugged, this whole little terms of service change kind of dampening my mental image of the Samantha Quick interview thing. For obvious reasons.

"Unfortunately, you will not be a Commedia dell'Arte character."

"Okay. I don't…care."

"However, someone will supply you a mask when you arrive at the club tonight. Remember—seventeen o'clock. Samantha is very punctual."

I nodded slowly, a ghost of a smile finding my face. "Yeah…sounds good."

"Ciao."

 _Man._ I locked my phone and let myself fall back into the mangled mess of my sleeping bag on the floor. I couldn't get the stupid smile off my face, and I honestly didn't care. My gaze went up to the chalky ceiling tiles.

"So, Signora Quick…" I whispered into the nothingness of the cold apartment. "We meet at last."

And then my phone started ringing again, going into convulsions. I groaned, swiping the screen.

"What is it now?"

"Joseph?" Sophia sounded offended.

"Oh, uh…" I coughed, trying to sound more serious. "Hey Sophia."

"Hey." She meant it as a sort of mock, but I almost laughed because it sounded weird with her sophisticated little Italian accent.

I cleared my throat. "How are you?"

"We need to talk. As soon as possible. Where are you?"

"Um." I pulled myself back up into sitting position. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I'm kind of…still trying to find my way around Venice. Y'know. Lost."

There was a pause. Probably while Sophia reconsidered her decision about hiring me. But ha, too late.

"You're lost?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

Sophia took a short breath. "Well as soon as you can find your way back to the Argon building, I would appreciate a talk with you. Have you been to Campo San Polo?"

 _No idea who or what that is._

"Yeah."

"Good. So I'll meet you there, then. By the fountain. Twenty minutes?"

I ran a hand through my hair. "Man, I don't know. I mean, I'm legit lost here. Like, I could be in Austria by now for all I know."

"Listen, Joseph—I have no time for games. The only reason I'm tolerating this behavior is because you've proven yourself to be useful to us."

 _Dang_. She was stubborn.

"I believe that you can do well that which you focus on. Now please, there is no time."

No time, no time. I wanted to ask her if the universe was going to end. But she didn't seem in the mood.

"Okay. Whatever."

"Campo San Polo, then. Twenty minutes."

"I'll try to make it."

"Ciao."

Okay, I had to do it. I had to get out of bed and stop thinking about the interview. Sophia hadn't bought my story, no matter how realistic it sounded. I mean, I _could_ have been wandering around in the Austrian mountains. Or at least in the slums of Treviso. Did they even _have_ slums in Treviso? Whatever. At least I had time for a shower.

And yes, the Argon building had a shower. In a little run-down bathroom on the first floor that apparently nobody believed in cleaning anymore. Yeah, it was creepy. But at least there was running water. Sort of.

So apparently there was a place called Campo San Polo. And it had a fountain sort of experience related to it. I found it after wandering around like a lost four-year-old and asking local people for directions with my non-advanced Italian translation abilities. I ended up being a whole five minutes late. And Sophia chewed me out about it.

Sophia was standing by the fountain. Tall and skinny with dark jeans and a black jacket. Sunglasses, coke.

"You weren't really lost, were you?"

"No, you're right." I sat down on the edge fountain.

She looked at me. Through her sunglasses. It was distracting.

"It's vital to see how people react to little scraps of untrue statistics. And stuff." I said.

"You mean lies."

"Yeah."

She kept looking at me. I couldn't see her eyes, but I could just tell. She sipped her can of coke. Her can of Italian coke. Like seriously, it had Italian writing on it. I was intrigued. Then she set it on the ground next to my feet.

"So. We need to talk. About last night."

Shoot. This was it. The agent girl had blabbed about that whole stupid run-in. She wasn't even hurt— _I_ was the one who got kicked in the stomach. But justice wouldn't prevail. At least not by Sophia. It was over. I was busted. And I didn't even get a fair chance at showing her what I could do.

"I saw the information you relayed via phone to one of the agents last night. It is very useful, and quite a lot to go on. For that, I offer my appreciation. However, I cannot appreciate a good agent making such a mistake—a mistake that could have cost you your position, in other circles."

 _I knew it._

"Look, Sophia—"

"I do not want excuses, Joseph,"

"You've gotta let me explain." I paused to take a quick breath before she could shut me down. "It wasn't my fault. Well not…completely. I know you told me to watch out for them, but I couldn't be sure of where everyone was, when they were constantly changing hiding places. And I sure as heck wasn't expecting you to post an agent on the altana." I straightened up a little, lowering my voice. "And if you ask me, it was kind of unprofessional for her to tell you about that."

Okay, so that last part was pretty lame. Of course it wasn't unprofessional. I mean, for crying out loud—the girl got grabbed by some random hooded dude with hobo gloves in a dark scary crime scene area. I was totally expecting her to blab. But what I wasn't expecting was for Sophia to whip off her sunglasses right then, finally revealing her expression, which was shocked to say the least.

 _Oh great. Hello deep shit, long time no see._

"What…are you talking about?" Sophia just stood there, looking down at me. One eyebrow raised. Flicking her glasses around in her right hand.

"You mean she didn't tell you?"

"Who didn't tell me?" Now her brown eyes were big.

"I-I don't know!"

Sophia was almost ready to lose it. "How can you not know who you are talking about?"

"Look, I didn't really see her that well. I don't know which agent she was."

At this point, Sophia did a facepalm. But it was more like a fancy little forehead smack. Finally after a minute of hating me, she decided to say something.

"You mean to tell me that you did _exactly_ what I told you _not_ to do?"

I just looked at her. Figuring that at this point, words weren't really necessary.

"And you ran into one of the agents? Did she see you? Did she speak to you?"

"She saw me, alright."

Sophia sighed, but tried not to show it too much. Looking tensed up all of a sudden. "Do you think, if she saw you again, she would recognize you?"

It was kind of a strange thing to ask. I mean, wouldn't she want to know if _I_ would recognize _her_?

I shook my head slowly. "No. Definitely not."

Sophia nodded. "Good. Then we'll just forget about it altogether. But please, next time, be more tactful."

 _Aurrrgh._ I wanted to say something, because it really _was_ mostly Sophia's fault for not letting me know where the agents were posted. But I decided to not say anything and instead just wait for her to tell me what else I did wrong.

She raised a hand to her forehead, probably trying to remember where she left off with the former conversation. "Alright. As I was saying, you made a mistake last night. However, I'm not going to allow it to affect your standing with me—with the GdiF. I'm sure you are already aware of your error."

"I'm not. Actually."

She looked at me for a moment, then slipped her sunglasses up to rest above her swooping dark side-bang which almost covered her right eye. "I'm speaking of how you stayed at the palazzo when it had become clear to you—through multiple events—that you needed to get back to the Casa dei Giochi."

"What?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "What do you mean? When should I have left? In your opinion."

"In my opinion?" Sophia snapped. "You shouldn't have left when you did. Period."

"And why not?"

"Because we do not play things that close." She stated calmly, brushing her long hair back over one shoulder.

"We don't? Well I do."

"Joseph," She was getting ticked. "You are under _my_ employment. Now. I told you, if we are to work together on this, you must cooperate. Please."

"I'm not being uncooperative. I was simply asking you a question."

She didn't reply. So I took another breath and continued.

"When do you think I should've left the palazzo, Sophia?" I leaned forward on my elbows, squinting up at her. "Because if I'd left any later, I would have been caught by Tazza. And if I'd left any sooner I wouldn't have heard that conversation and been able to relay that 'very useful information' at all. I know we haven't worked together that much, so we don't really understand each other's…ways of doing things. But I think you'll find out pretty soon that I'm an expert at playing things too close."

She stood there for a minute, looking like I'd just insulted her. Opening her mouth, then closing it again. Dropping her gaze. Taking a slow, annoyed breath. "All I am saying, is that I was expecting you to be more careful. But I understand what you say, and we will become better at communicating and working together, I am sure. I do not rest the blame fully on your shoulders, Joseph. Things would have gone more according to plan had I been able to communicate with you via radio, but that was impossible."

Ha. So things would've gone more according to Sophia's plan if Sophia had been telling me what to do? Naturally. But I wasn't used to people telling me what to do. And I wasn't about to start getting used to it.

"Why was it impossible to get me a radio?" Yeah, I was totally done with the topic at this point, but that radio thing—I was really curious about it. How come I didn't get one? Was the GdiF really that cheap?

"It was, uh…" Sophia slipped her hands into the pockets of her dark jeans. "It was not feasible."

I raised an eyebrow. "But…it would've been better. I mean, my whole little accidental run-in with that agent could've been avoided if I'd had a radio."

"True…" She nodded a little. Like she didn't want to. "But these are not my decisions—they are the GdiF's. Now I am afraid I must be going." She glanced at her skinny wristwatch for effect. "I'll be in touch with you via phone."

After she left, I just sort of wandered around, thinking about the interview with Samantha Quick and what I would say and how I could get information out of her for the GdiF. But I couldn't focus.

My mind drifted to the stakeout the night before and the agent I'd bumped into. Her radio had a number. And recordings. I knew because I'd played with it all last night while I was trying to get to sleep, like a small orphaned child who has but one toy in all the world. I'd listened to all the recordings. Most of the communications were muffled—so I could tell those were the other agents—but the ones that were noticeably clearer, those were hers. That was her voice. And I kept playing it back over and over, trying to learn her voice. Don't ask me why—I don't even know. It just felt somehow important to me. I knew that if I told Sophia, "Hey that agent dropped her radio, here it is," she would've been able to tell me exactly who she was. I wanted to know who she was, but I didn't want to learn that from Sophia. I had to figure it out myself.

Man, I was wishing that I hadn't mentioned her to Sophia. As if I wasn't in enough trouble already. Yeah, Sophia seemed pretty forgiving so far, (keywords: so far) but I knew that I didn't have an infinite number of strike-outs. And the conversation we'd just had left me feeling kind of confused. I mean, did she even _know_ what she wanted? It was like she'd tell me to do one thing, then accuse me for it later. I was feeling some serious whiplash.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: Thank you so much! I'm so glad you liked the last chapter (even though it was very filler) and that you appreciate the metaphors. :) That means a lot to me. I hope you enjoy this installment! _


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 **Nancy**

When I returned from grabbing a quick lunch at Rialto Market, I found several parcels left on the table in the front entrance patio of the Ca Nascosta. The first was a box of chocolates addressed to Il Dottore—not surprising. The second, however, caught my attention. It was a manila envelope with a single name printed across the front, looking lonely against all that solid.

 _Samantha_

I would be lying if I told you that my heart didn't jump a little, not because of the name, but because of the implications. Who thought that Samantha Quick was staying here, at the Ca Nascosta? I shook free of the idea for a moment, deciding that I would think about this in my room. I took the letter and the box of chocolates. Though I didn't want to be seen with them as if they were mine, I didn't want them to melt in the sun, which was executing a hostile takeover on the patio.

I hurried up the stairs and shoved open the door, consequentially bashing straight into Helena.

"Oh! Nancy," she huffed, backing up a step and trying to work the annoyance off her face. "I didn't even hear you."

"Sorry Helena," I forced a smile and braced my arms over my chest, trying to hide the parcels from her immediate view. But I failed.

"Zo." She looked up with a coy little smile, "Someone left another box of chocolates for you, I see. I _knew_ zey were for you all along. See, you can't keep _all_ your little secrets from me, Nancy Drew."

 _Oh yes I can._

"Where are you off to, Helena?" I changed the subject, making sure the name on the envelope was well concealed from her view.

"Oh, just…errands and zings." she explained with a wave of her hand, like if I need not question that in the least. "But aren't you just a lucky receiver today?" She laughed one of her fake laughs. "Believe it or not, another parcel arrived for you earlier—when you were out—so I left it in our room."

I wanted to ask why, but I didn't. I cared little of the transportation of the parcel, and much more of its contents. So instead of asking questions about my roommate's unwelcome intrusions on my privacy, I just smiled and thanked her.

"See you," Helena slipped past me and let herself out the front door, closing it behind her.

I let out a breath and scanned the room, which was empty and echoing my exhale. It was warm in my bedroom, and painted a soft glowing red from the afternoon sun. There was a thin, pale envelope on my bed, with a vaguely familiar scripted 'Nancy' across the front.

I seated myself on the edge of my bed and looked down at the three pieces of mail. They were all addressed differently, yet somehow, they were all for me. I shook my head of the questions for now, reaching for the envelope with my name on it, then pulling my hand away, almost as if by some other force.

 _No—remember what's important,_ I told myself coldly, taking the parcel addressed to Samantha and tearing open the flap. A single sheet of unlined paper fell out into my lap. I unfolded it and read quickly.

 _Samantha,_

 _Your presence is requested by Arlecchino. Please be at the Casa dei Giochi this evening at seventeen o'clock for an investigative interview._

 _As you may have been told, Sonitrico has acquired a viable candidate for the inevitable replacement of Brighella - a new candidate by the name of Josiah Daniau. Unfortunately, at this time, we do not have many clients at our disposal. Thus, the decision has been unofficially made by Arlecchino – we are to reach out to other contacts in order to acquire new clients to fill certain empty positions. We do not have much time._

 _Given your record of assistance in the past, Arlecchino trusts your judgment and insists that you interview the potential candidate. To put it in his own words, "We trust that you will be able to extract as much information as possible with as little transparency as possible."_

 _Please do not be alarmed at the implications of this change. We have never placed one particular client in a position indefinitely. You, among others, will be kept on our list for the potential positions of liberators. All is changeable within Sonitrico. We are one, but we are separate. We speak of nothing, and yet we say everything._

 _Remember: Casa dei Giochi at seventeen o'clock. We trust you will be punctual, as you always are._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Scaramuccia_

Arlecchino was Enrico Tazza and Scaramuccia was Gina. So that meant this was a letter from Tazza, written by Gina. But why would she have written the letter? I thought Antonio Fango was the one in charge of communications. And who was Josiah Daniau? A replacement for the position of Brighella meant a replacement for Nico Petit. Which meant a replacement for the phantom.

I sat there for a few moments, staring down at the letter in my hands, unable to feel anything beyond the thin paper and myself breathing in and out. I couldn't answer any of these questions for myself. I would merely have to wait.

Seventeen o'clock was five o'clock and it wasn't far away. In fact, I probably only had time to shower, dress and get myself ready before leaving for the interview.

I folded the paper back up and slipped it into its envelope, reaching for the next parcel with my real name on it. I couldn't help but notice how the seal was slightly bubbly and peeling open, like if someone had to reseal it. The same sort of lined notepaper fell into my hands with the same computer font from the letter I received that morning.

 _I almost didn't recognize you. What happened to your locket?_

 _P.s. Do you know who I am yet?_

"What on earth…?"

Who was sending these notes? They were starting to sound a little unnerving. And after receiving two on the same day, I was beginning to think about the possibilities more. My mouth had gone dry. I folded the note up with the envelope and tossed it aside on my bed, opening up the box of chocolates for Il Dottore, and possibly even considering eating one or two.

When I pried the lid off and looked inside, there was nothing. No chocolates, just nine little empty paper cups. What was _that_ supposed to mean? I knew that the chocolates weren't just a token of appreciation for Il Dottore, they were used as a form of communication. Each chocolate had a name, I'd learned from the slip of paper in Fango's office. And the first letter of each name would communicate a message to the receiver. But this time, Il Capitano sent a box of chocolates missing chocolates? What sort of message was that supposed to communicate? I didn't know. And that bothered me.

I didn't know about the chocolates, I didn't know who was sending the anonymous notes, I didn't know what the password to the safe was and I didn't know who grabbed me on the rooftop the night before. And I wasn't going to tell Sophia about any of it. No, I was going to take a shower.

The water was mostly cold, but I felt that I needed the subtle shock. Afterward, I threw on pajamas and wrapped my wet hair in a towel. I stood in front of my wardrobe with the doors flung open.

 _I guess I have to wear that red dress. And white gloves and sunglasses. Even though it'll be too dark out for sunglasses._

I smiled and pulled the satiny sleeveless dress off of its hanger, tossing it onto my bed. Then I grabbed my makeup bag and set it on the little desk to the left of the door. For moment I just stood there and looked deep into the mirror, like if it had eyes other than mine staring back. I could almost hear a voice with those words in my head.

 _I almost didn't recognize you._

I shook my head, sitting down and unzipping my makeup bag, sifting through the different shades of lipstick and blush. I never wore makeup for my own satisfaction. It was tedious, time-consuming and generally looked like it didn't belong on my skin. But for a disguise, I was willing to go through the pains.

Compact mirror. Blush. This one? No. Darker. I started to sweep the brush gently across my right cheek, then the left. Checking it in the mirror. Blending it again. I was closing up the container of blush when the bedroom door was thrown open and the handle almost bashed into my face.

"Oh! Nancy." Helena was back from her errand, apparently. She forced an annoyed smile as she shut the door with a little more grace. "I thought you didn't vear makeup."

"Sometimes." I said, popping the blush back into my bag and rising from my chair.

There were a few moments of silence. Helena dropped her canvas tote on her bed and started looking at something on her phone. I rubbed the fluffy white towel out of my long hair, running my fingers through the tangled ends for a moment. The hair dryer barely worked, and I wondered if I could do without it.

"Are you going to vear that dress?" she asked, looking at the silky red lump like it was a disgraceful thing to behold.

I raise an eyebrow. "Yes…?"

"But you can't be serious. It's positively freezing!"

"I suppose it is." I cleared my throat, running my fingers through another wet tangle. "But I…kind of have to wear that dress."

"Vell here. At least let me help you." Helena locked her phone and set it down on her nightstand, going to her tall oak dresser. She dragged open one of the drawers and pulled out a white cardigan with long sleeves and small buttons.

"Oh, I couldn't."

"No, no. Please." She tossed it onto my bed. "Vhat is a roommate for? You can return it when you get back tonight."

I dragged the towel through my hair again. "Are you sure?"

She nodded.

"Alright," I shrugged. "Thanks."

"Zo." Helena said after a new seconds of quiet. "Anyzing interesting in all that mail?"

I knew she must've been looking at my bed, at all the parcels I'd left there in a messy little pile. But I couldn't hide them from her, now. I was in the bathroom, squeezing pepperminty gunk onto my toothbrush.

"Oh, yeah, I um…I guess." I shrugged, capping the toothpaste with one hand. "Sort of interesting."

Thankfully she was occupied, looking through a folder in her lap when I poked my head out of the bathroom doorway, shoving the toothbrush around in my mouth. I couldn't help feeling a little suspicious as I watched her, flipping through those scribbled papers. I couldn't help but think about the envelope with my name on it—how the flap looked very much like it had been tampered with. I didn't want to blame Helena for something offhanded, but I had to ask anyway. It was my job. My duty.

I turned back to the sink, finished brushing my teeth and quickly rinsed with a mouthwash which I dearly hoped was mine. Then I dried my face and hands and went back to the little desk beside the door.

"Helena..."

"Hmm?"

"That parcel you said you left for me on my bed," I started, looking through the various lip colors in my bag. "I couldn't help but notice that it looked a little bit like someone had opened it already. And sealed it back up."

"Are you accusing _me_ of reading your mail?" my roommate scoffed, sounding thoroughly offended. "Like if I would care what some little teenager's lover decides to write to her."

I felt my shoulders tense slightly at her choice of words. Then I clicked open the mirror, tracing my lips with the dark crimson stain. "I wasn't accusing you, Helena."

She turned a page. Violently.

"I would just appreciate it if you please tend to your own business and leave my mail, be it a letter from my _lover_ or a warrant for my arrest, alone."

The folder snapped shut. Helena stormed to the door, swinging it open.

"And I would appreciate it if you treated me with a little _respect._ "

The door slammed, making Helena's framed picture of herself face-plant on the dresser. I stopped a laugh with my hand, lipsticking my palm. Was it a laughing matter? Not really. But it was funny, nonetheless.

I dried my hair as best I could, stabbed a pair of big silver hoops into my ears, and slipped into the satiny red dress. It was quarter past four and I was making good time. So I decided to do something special with my hair. Or, should I say, fake hair. While my long waves of titian finished drying, I pinned up the blonde wig in a simple, loose up-do, secured by pins with tiny pearl charms on the ends. Seventeen of them, to be exact. I couldn't tell which was worse—pinchy hair pins or itchy wigs. By the time I was done, my real hair was completely dry and the boring blonde wig looked pretty awesome. It took a while (as usual) to secure every lock of titian under the wig, but I managed it all just in time.

It was ten minutes to five o'clock when I slipped Helena's cardigan over my bare arms and checked myself in the mirror once more. The sun was scraping at the windows like an intruder, shooting scars of orange across the walls.

 _Signore Daniau._ I thought about the name for a moment, then I tried it out on my tongue.

"Signore Daniau." I was still looking into the mirror at my smile as I said it, this time a little more in a whisper, "Josiah Daniau."

I refocused, grabbing my white gloves from the desk and letting myself out into the great room, then out the front door and down the steps, into the soft, darkening streets that felt like an oil painting. The lights were reflecting in of the river where the boats sang out like the birds in the vast milky pink overhead. The air was smooth and cool. And my heart was dancing up into my throat. And I didn't know why.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _Thank you so much for reading, as always! Sorry this chapter is a little late. :)_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 **Joe**

"You're late. And you're not supposed to use that door." Greco informed me as I came through the back door of the Casa dei Giochi at five past five. I was softly shutting it behind me when he swung around in his big black swivel chair.

"Is Samantha here?" I asked in reply, not caring that I was late or that I was using the wrong door.

Greco grunted, "Signora Quick."

"Fine, Signora Quick. Is she here?"

"No."

"Really…" I said it more to myself.

 _She's late, too. Unlike her, according to Tazza._

"But she should be here any minute, so…" he sighed, pushing himself to his feet and shuffling over to a stack of cardboard boxes.

I looked around, rubbing my hands together—they were shaking a little. I didn't know why. Well, not really. But sort of.

"You need a mask." Greco informed me when he noticed me staring at him as he looked through the boxes of painted paper mache.

"Yeah, I know." _Don't remind me,_ I wanted to say, but didn't.

I wandered over to the open door that connected the back room to the club rooms, staring out at the card tables, which were standing stiffly in the soft, smoky light. Noticing the sounds of glass and paper and laughter and the smell of cigars and cheap wine.

"Daniau."

"Hm?" I turned around to face the dark pit of fuzzy computer monitors that was the security booth.

Greco motioned me over. Then he shoved a half mask into my hands. It was painted black with stripes of white across the eyes and a curved diagonal cut under the nose.

"And I have to wear this?"

He nodded and closed the box. "It's policy."

"Policy." I looked down at the mask in my hands as he started to walk away. "For what…a whole five minutes now."

Greco didn't appreciate my comment. Either that, or he was intentionally not listening. I figured that it was probably the latter. I followed him over to where a bunch of filing systems were shoved against the wall and kind of spilling over. He was looking for something, I didn't ask what.

"So," I cleared my throat. "Have you ever met Samantha Quick?"

He shook his head, fumbling through a drawer. "It's not typically the job of a security overseer to manage investigations—" he paused to shut the drawer, "—or 'interviews' with clients. However…Enrico gets whatever he wills."

"Hm. Yeah." I was biting my lower lip, fidgeting with the mask in my hand.

The room looked like it used to be a stage—and it probably was. There were rafters and dowels shoved up into the ceiling, and long black sheets hanging down, separating the security booth area from the rest of the club. Strips of milky light slipped through the spaces, and I wandered over to look out into the dark smog of the club.

Enrico Tazza was at a table on the left side of the room, talking with a group of guys holding shot glasses and handfuls of cards. There was another security guard dude standing at the front door, holding a little box like it was important. I scanned the rest of the card tables, which were either empty or partially occupied by guys with cigarettes and glasses of amber liquid. No white gloves, no long blonde hair, no Samantha Quick.

 _Man, where is she?_

My gaze flicked back to the guy waiting at the door. He was still standing there, holding that box, looking straight ahead of him like one of those footman dudes from the seventeen hundreds. I backed away from the curtain, trying to figure out if there was anything else I could say to Greco without looking anxious/suspicious.

"So. What is all this stuff?" I motioned slightly towards the boxes and bins stacked up against the wall, but he didn't really see. He was too busy flipping through a thoroughly scribbled-on legal pad.

"Inventory. Unfiled, clearly." He sighed, tearing through the pages in his hands. "And I shouldn't be the one doing this… Dico loro di scriverlo…"

 _Inventory?_

Trying my level best to be discreet, I drifted over to one of the slightly-busted cardboard boxes, dropping my hand inside and feeling around. Heavy stuff wrapped in paper. _Huh_. Deciding that this would involve way more investigating than I first thought, I backed off. Then I started running my hands along the boxes in classic annoying-little-kid fashion.

"When do you think Samantha will get here?"

Greco groaned, glancing up from his notepad. "Daniau. Come."

"Yeah?"

"Take this box to the cord closet."

"Kay." I sighed the word, acting like I didn't want to—even though it was the exact opposite. The only place I wanted to be right then was locked in a closet with a box of 'inventory.' That is, the only place other than sitting across from Samantha Quick.

"And come _right back_. Yes?"

I looked at him for a second, my plan getting slightly derailed. "Yes."

I picked up the box and took it over to the other side of the room. Greco went back to his papers.

The cord closet was a closet for electronic cords of various shapes, sizes, and functions. Big surprise. I didn't know why he wanted me to put the box there—probably just to get me out of his hair for a minute. I could just imagine him going back to move it later. I shoved open the door, snapped on the light, and shut myself inside.

"Okay, let's see what we've got here."

Getting down on my knees, I opened up the flaps of the box. Paper, paper, stuff wrapped up in paper. I grabbed one of the things and unwrapped it really fast. Some kind of old wooden carved box. It looked authentic. And ancient. I wrapped it back up and dug around some more. Man, I didn't have much time here. Greco would come looking for me in a second.

Then my hands found something—a few things, actually. A couple of rings with real-ish-looking gemstones, a silver ashtray, and a locket. I looked at the locket, dropping the other stuff back into the box. It was silver, but not real. Sort of cheap, with a thin chain. I pocketed the locket and decided it was time to get out of the closet. It was obvious that this was a box of inventory, and the inventory was stolen goods. I had no proof without an authenticator, but that was my guess.

"Signora Quick has arrived." Greco mumbled so much, I didn't even know what the heck he said for a second. But then I saw the fuzzy black and white monitor on his dashboard—the front door cam, which displayed the blur of a slender girl waiting outside.

"Please, come in," he greeted her through the speaker, "Signore Daniau will be with you presently."

"Crap, are you serious?" I ran to the wall of black sheets where I'd been hanging out before, looking through the cracks to get a glimpse of the club rooms. Greco sighed and came over to me, sort of peering out too, even though he probably wouldn't have admitted it.

The guy with the box was opening the front door to let Samantha Quick inside. She had her back turned, closing the door like if the dude couldn't do that himself. Blonde curls. Red dress. White cardigan. He handed her the box and said something, but she was still in the shadows. Then Tazza came over and said, "Ah, Samantha," (I could hear it from the back room) and she turned around completely.

For a second I just stared. "Dang. She's pretty."

"Don't get any ideas." Greco warned, going back to his security booth.

I stood there and watched for another minute. Tazza was saying something to Samantha and she was nodding, like she understood. Then she opened up the little box and took out a paper mache half mask—like mine, only this one was white and looked more feminine, although I couldn't see it that well from where I was. Tazza must've been telling her about the new 'policy' thing. Then his voice got louder and he motioned towards a scopa table off to the side of the room—it was small and shoved under a particularly dim, yellow light. She smiled and took the mask, going over to the table.

I stepped back, taking a deep breath. Positioning my mask over my face. Messing my hair slightly with my damp hands. Going over to the door, looking out for a second. Then I pushed myself out into the smoky room, which was thick with the sounds of voices and shuffling cards. And I approached the table where she was waiting with her gloved hands folded in her lap. And I sat down. Across from Samantha Quick. Red lips, bright eyes. Smooth, white painted mask covering up most of the face that I got to see without permission.

"So, Signora Quick. We meet at last."

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _Thank you for reading! I know right? The notes are super creepy. But Nancy will get to the bottom of it. ;) Hehe I would be no good as a detective, either. Keep guessing! I hope you enjoy reading this installment! :D_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

 **Nancy**

"Ah, Samantha,"

I turned to face him, holding the small box which was just handed to me.

"Signore Tazza," I smiled slightly.

He motioned for me to open the box. "I'm afraid you haven't been informed of our new policy changes."

I raised an eyebrow, shaking my head slowly. "No…"

"It is now a rule that all members of the Casa dei Giochi must wear masks during communications of any kind. For security reasons."

 _All members?_

I nodded, looking at him for a moment.

He motioned again towards the box. "Please."

I slipped off the lid and peeled back the tissue paper. Inside was a smooth, white half-mask with light blue glittery swirls painted around the eyes. I lifted it out and handed the box to Tazza.

"So, um...does this mean that I'm a member of the Casa dei Giochi?"

He laughed and drained the liquid in the shot glass he was holding. "I would say that your chances are very good, Signora. If tonight goes well, then we will know for sure, won't we?"

Again, I forced a small smile. "Yes. We will."

"Please, sit down." Tazza motioned towards a small card table off to the side of the room. It was accompanied by two wooden chairs and crowned in soft, yellow light. "Signore Daniau will be with you shortly." Then he lowered his voice and added, "Remember you're instructions."

I nodded, and we parted ways—Tazza went back to the group at the other end of the room, and I made my way to the little table he had pointed out to me. Sitting down. Positioning my mask over my face, slowly and carefully so I didn't mess my wig at all. Then I folded my hands in my lap and waited. There was a deck of Scopa cards on the table, stacked to perfection. But other than that? Nothing. No trace of a clue of something this Josiah Daniau may have left behind. Nothing to give me a hint about him. Nothing.

I smoothed my hands over my satiny red dress. _Calm down, Nancy. Jeez. What is there to be nervous about?_ I shrugged off the jittery feeling seizing my fingers like infant hands and forced an air of confidence onto my face in the shape of a borderline-pathetic smile. I didn't have much time to think about anything after that, because all at once a shadow fell past my peripheral vision along with the mild scent of spearmint. Then he sat down at the table, across from me.

"So, Signora Quick. We meet at last."

Eyes. The most incredible shade of blue I'd ever seen. Messy blonde hair. White overshirt. Black vest. Half mask covering all but his smile, which was almost like a creature of its own. For a moment longer than I care to believe, I completely forgot what he had just said to me.

"At last?" I finally found my voice and forced it out into the light.

"Uh, well not…" He broke himself out of his own distraction, looking down for a second. "Not for you, I guess." He started tracing the deck of cards with his fingers. They were shaking a little, I couldn't help but notice.

"No," I said, managing a smile. "I'm afraid I don't even know who you are."

"I'm Joe…Josiah. Josiah Daniau."

"So I've been told." I watched his expression—how he almost had to correct himself just then. "Daniau…so are you from France?" I couldn't help but find the pattern a bit odd—Nico Petit was from France, and supposedly Josiah was meant to replace him.

"No, actually." He cleared his throat, taking his hands away from the deck of cards. "I'm…I'm from America."

"I'm from America, too."

"I thought you sounded like it," He smiled again, just slightly—leaning forward on his elbows. "But they told me you were from Switzerland."

"Yes," I glanced down at my hands in my lap. "I'm from Switzerland, too."

Josiah tilted his head slightly to one side, giving me a look with those eyes. Blue.

"I'm from everywhere," I let a few drops of smile bleed out onto my face. "Everywhere I've been, that is."

"And have you been everywhere?"

"I'd like to think so. But…no." I pulled in a short breath, squaring up my shoulders. "I just…go where I need to go, you know what I mean?"

After a few seconds, he nodded. "Yeah. I know exactly what you mean." Then he just looked at me for a moment, reading into my eyes like if they were showing him something no one else could see.

"I trained in Switzerland. At the Doppler Institute." I leaned my elbows on the edge of the table, reaching up to run my gloved hand over the back of my neck. "But you probably already knew that."

"No," He shook his head quickly. "I didn't, actually. They didn't tell me much about you, Signora Quick—"

"Please call me Samantha," I cut in flawlessly with a little smile.

"Alright," Josiah exhaled the word in a laugh. "Samantha…I don't think anyone knows much about you."

"I wouldn't doubt it. But I like it that way. It's a liberating feeling, actually—to be the only one who truly knows me."

He thought about it for a moment, gaze drifting down to the table between us. "It's a scary feeling, too. Almost like…walking on a land mine, when you know it's there."

I opened my mouth to reply, but words didn't come until a few seconds later. "I'm not familiar with the feeling of fear. Or walking on land mines."

"Well they're pretty much the same thing and they both suck." He laughed, making me involuntarily do the same. "But…it _is_ possible to do something scary without being afraid."

I thought about that, like it was the only thing I'd heard all evening. There were a few seconds of quiet before Josiah said anything else.

"I think you know that feeling, Samantha. I think you know it well."

"Yes," I nodded slowly, looking back up to his gaze. So blue. "You're right about that."

For a second, neither of us said a thing. We just stared at each other, like we somehow understood the silence and its foreign gibberish. And somehow, nothing felt awkward or out of place in that moment. Then suddenly I remembered the conversation on pause and how I was supposed to be leading it in a particular direction.

"So," I took a breath, straightening up slightly. "Where did _you_ train? Or did you major in psychology instead?" It was mostly a joke—I knew that he was a spy, and he couldn't have been more than nineteen years old. This network of crime was almost like a world within itself, and college wasn't part of it.

He laughed softly, into his hands. "I trained at a private academy. In America."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's…you know."

"Confidential."

"Exactly." Josiah nodded, going back to fingering the deck of Scopa cards again. His hands were more relaxed, now. They looked soft and warm and suntanned.

"I may not be a psychologist," he said, "But I should probably warn you—I've always been…a little bit psychic."

I raised an eyebrow. "A _little_ bit psychic? And what does that imply?"

"I know things about you that you haven't told anyone and I can tell what you're thinking of. But only sometimes."

"Oh?" I smiled slightly, leaning back in the wooden chair. "That sounds very…reliable."

"It isn't."

I took a short breath. "Well knowing secret things about people is a part of our profession, isn't it? At the DI we call it _studies_."

Josiah nodded slowly, still keeping his eyes fixed on mine. "In America we call it _wild guesses._ "

A pause. Soft shadows. His hands. They went over the edge of the table and back into his lap.

"For example."

I looked back up. To his eyes.

"You're wearing two rings on your right hand."

Victory was mine. At least for right then. I shook my head. "I'm wearing gloves, actually."

"Under your gloves, I mean?"

"Nope."

"Dang," he whispered, looking down at the table. He had his elbows against it again. Thinking. I liked something about the look in his eyes. Eight million things were going on inside his head and it was so obvious through that look.

"That cardigan you're wearing doesn't belong to you."

"How did you know that?" I asked, feeling my eyes widen in spite of myself.

Josiah shrugged one shoulder, like I ought to know the answer.

"Okay, fine. You're right about that. But I didn't steal it, if that's what you think—my roommate lent it to me."

"Your roommate," Apparently this was another opportunity to test his telepathic abilities. "And her name is…" He looked at me. "Natalie Clarkson."

I shook my head, finding some kind of sick enjoyment in letting him down. "Helena Berg."

 _Dang, did I just say that out loud? What is wrong with you, Nancy?_

I couldn't take back the words I'd spoken, so instead I acted like nothing was amiss. He studied my expression anyway, which made me feel uneasy.

"So this Helena Berg person. Is she…what. Annoying? Awesome? The sister you never had?"

I laughed lowly and rolled my eyes. "You're a bit desperate for conversation, Signore Daniau."

"What I am—" he lowered his voice, leaning slightly closer. "Is absolutely _clueless_ when it comes to conversation, Samantha. It's not like I was informed of what this whole meeting is supposed to be about."

"Weren't you?" I felt my eyebrows raise. "Uh, I mean, I was hoping you were. I was hoping one of us would be."

"You mean you weren't told anything except to show up here tonight?"

I nodded softly.

A smile fell back across his face. "Well then, I guess we both have no bloody clue what we're supposed to be talking about."

I allowed myself a smile as well, still keeping firm and subtle. "We can talk about my roommate if you want," I shrugged. "Though I couldn't think of a topic more…insignificant."

"Insignificant? So you don't like her, then." Josiah fell back in his chair, suddenly seeming much more like a little boy than before.

"I don't mean insignificant like that. Helena is fine. I meant that she's insignificant to our…trade."

"Ah. Well yeah." He looked at me for a long few seconds. "But since I can't think of anything else to talk about…what do you not like about her?"

I thought out a reply before speaking this time. Something that would've helped me to avoid this topic altogether. But Josiah was sharp—he was way more on top of his game than I was. I could tell just by the look in his eye.

"She's just…kind of nosy. And she likes reading through my mail."

He raised an eyebrow—I couldn't actually see his eyebrows, but I could somehow tell. "And you let her?"

"I'm…not convinced that I have much of a choice."

For a moment he just looked at me, almost like a corner of his world had been partially shattered. He cleared his throat, straightening up suddenly as if he was just trapped in some sort of daze.

"Well, I guess you're right. This topic isn't really going anywhere significant." Josiah ended it.

He looked down at the table between us for a moment. His eyes were lost. There was a story somewhere deep in there, wrapped up in blue and praying no one would ever find it. But I was going to. Somehow.

Finally he looked up. "What's your favorite color, Samantha?"

"What?" I almost laughed when I said it.

He smiled. A little. "Seriously."

"I, uh…" I shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know."

"How can you not know?"

I shrugged again. "No one's ever asked me that."

"That's…creepy. Anyway, you must have a favorite color, so just think of it."

"Okay..." I took a slow breath, trying not to smile too much. This guy was something else.

He looked at me for a long few seconds, right in the eyes.

"Red."

I shook my head. "Blue."

"That was my second guess."

Now I laughed for real. "Last time I checked, psychics don't _guess._ They just _know._ "

"Ah, but I didn't say I was psychic. I said I was _a little bit_ psychic. Which means it comes and goes and sometimes I'm wrong."

"Well at least you admit to it."

A pause. He ran his fingers over the Scopa deck again. Everything felt muted in the thickness of the air which was heavy with smoke, distant conversations from distant tables.

"You look like you're devising some kind of plan."

Josiah laughed, glancing back up. "I was just wondering if I should freak you out or not."

I raised an eyebrow again. Elbows on the table. "Should I be scared?"

"Should Samantha Quick ever be scared?"

"…Wow. That was sharp."

"I'm glad you thought so."

I shook my head slowly, looking across the fog of dim light and into his partially-masked face. Suddenly aching to see beyond that thin layer of paper mache.

"What do you think of me?" He asked.

"Shouldn't you know?"

He shook his head slowly. Barely. "I've lost it. For right now, anyway."

I took a shallow breath, gauging the consequences of a truthful reply. "Honestly, I don't know what to make of you, Josiah."

"Good."

"Good?"

"That's what you were supposed to say." He smiled, determined on spreading to me the contagious strain I'd only ever seen on his face. "Now, take off your gloves and put them in your cardigan pockets. Left in your left pocket, right in your right pocket."

"Why?"

"Just trust me." He took the Scopa deck and started shuffle-cutting. "It's part of the game."

"I trust no one, Josiah. That's the policy, right? Or did you not learn that at your fancy American school?"

"What makes you think my American school is fancy?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. You just…you seem like a rich man's son."

"Really." His eyebrows raised again. "Good to know." Then he went back to cutting the deck. "Now put your gloves in your pockets."

I consented, seeing no danger in it. I peeled both of the white gloves off my hands and pushed one into each of my cardigan pockets.

"Alright," I looked up. "Now what?"

"Now I'm going to riffle through this deck, and you're going to tell me when to stop. Okay?"

I shrugged gently. "Easy enough."

Josiah leaned forward on his elbows, almost halfway across the small table so I could see the deck of cards in his hands.

"Stop."

He broke the rest of the deck away, set it aside, then turned over the stack in his hands.

"And the card you stopped at is the seven of swords. Could you just sign the back of that card, please?" He flipped it around, revealing the designed back and handed me a fine tip marker, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. I took it, uncapped it and started to sign the card.

 _Nan_

And then I stopped myself. Forced a smile and tried to brush it off, even though I knew full well Josiah Daniau didn't miss a beat. I scratched it out.

"Whoops, my bad."

"It's alright," he said softly, but I knew that it was far from being alright.

 _Samantha_

"Perfect." He smiled a little, edging his fingers under the card. "I like your handwriting."

I smile a little, modestly. "Thank you."

He flipped the card back over. "Now let's keep the seven of swords here, on the table." He set it down, face-up. "And I'm going to riffle down the side again and you're going to pick another card. Okay? Tell me when to stop."

He did. I told him when to stop. He peeled the rest of the deck away. It was the king of clubs. He told me to sign it, this time on the face of the card. And I didn't mess it up.

"So now I'm going to set the king of clubs right here, next to the seven of swords. You signed them both, right?"

"Right…"

"So I'm going to transfer your signature on this card—" He pointed to the seven of swords, "to this card." He pointed to the king of clubs. "You think I can do it?"

I smiled, a little. "Of course not, that's not possible."

Josiah shook his head slowly, taking the seven in his hand and tapping it against the other card. "You have such little faith in me."

I raised an eyebrow. "And should I have more?"

"Yes." He dropped the seven card. "You should."

I looked down. It was blank. No signature on the back.

"Wait." I reached for the other card, the king with my name on the front, flipping it over in my hands. _Samantha,_ with the scribbled out mistake before it. Then I lifted my gaze back up to his. "How did you do that?"

He shrugged.

"No, seriously. I have to know."

"Do you." A smile. Highly contagious.

I set the card back down on the table, still keeping my gaze focused on him.

"Alright. Fine." He relented. "I don't usually do this, so…consider yourself lucky."

A laugh found its unsolicited way out. "Oh, I do."

Josiah stood up and stepped around the card table, grabbing another wooden chair and dragging it over next to mine. And then he sat down, reaching across the table for the deck of cards.

Spearmint. Faint, but there. He was right next to me. Almost too close, but it was hard to tell. Signals that usually fired up to my brain seemed to be stalled and distracted that night. I was Samantha Quick. And I wasn't afraid.

"Alright, so here's how it works. While I was talking to you about my fancy American school, I was false cutting these cards, making your think that I was shuffling them. Essentially false cutting is a way to keep the cards you need at the bottom of the pile without messing anything up." he explained, leaning on the edge of the table to show me.

I nodded. "Got it."

"So I put the card I want in the middle of the deck and keep my finger there so I don't lose it."

"Oh, I see. How sneaky."

"And then when I riffle down the side of the deck and you tell me to stop, I really just break it off where _I_ want it to, and make it look like I really stopped where _you_ wanted me to."

"Okay, now this is _really_ sounding like reverse psychology."

"Come on, I'm a spy. Not a psychologist." He turned to look at me. Blue. Super close.

I managed the faintest nod. "I could tell."

He smiled, barely. Turning back to the cards in his hands. "So, I tell you this is the card you chose—this time it's the two of coins. I flip it over, but really I'm flipping over _two._ The two of coins and the one behind it—which is…the valet of swords. I have you sign the back of the valet card, but you _think_ you're signing the back of the coin card. I get my fingers under both cards—while making some distracting little comment about how beautiful your handwriting is—then I flip both cards back over. I take the deck away from the coin card without letting you see the valet card under it—because I'm going to force that card on you in a minute—and I set the coin card down on the table."

"I think I can guess the rest."

"Really?" he sounded a little surprised, then shrugged. "Go for it."

I bit my lip, puzzling the rest out in my head for a minute while he waited with the deck of cards in one hand. "Well, you're obviously going to ask me to pick another card,"

"Mm-hmm…"

"And it's going to be the valet of swords, whether I like it or not. That's the card with my signature on the back, even though I _think_ it's the coin card on the table."

Josiah nodded, and pulled the valet card out of the deck for me to see. I flipped it around, and there was the scribble on the back.

"Wow," I dropped it on the table. "So nothing was ever written on this coin card in the first place."

"Exactly."

I leaned back into my chair. "That's…very deceptive."

He laughed. "I guess so."

"Where did you learn that?"

"Oh I don't know." He shrugged. "I just sort of… played around with card tricks ever since I was little. Something about street magic always fascinated me. I wanted to be good at it."

I turned to look fully into his face. Into his eyes. "Well you _are_ good at it."

Josiah smiled a little, faintly. Modestly. "Yeah, I don't know. I guess I just can't stand being defeated."

"By what?" I leaned one elbow against the table, letting my face rest in my hand.

"Anything. Card tricks, people, the laws of physics…"

I laughed.

"I _have_ busted out of quite a few handcuffs and chains. And I can pretty much take any punch ever."

"They must've called you Houdini at your...fancy American school."

Josiah smiled again. He did it way too much. "Yeah, I got that a few times. But I haven't really been able to live up to that—not until I can catch a bullet. Which, by the way, I'm working on."

"So you really are as crazy as you look."

" _Crazier_ than I look, actually." He stood up, pushing the chair back over to its proper place at another card table, then returning to his seat across from me. "Or so my brother keeps telling me."

"You have a brother? I didn't know that." _Transparency, baby. Transparency._ "What's his name?"

"It's confidential."

"Poor him." I tilted my head to one side. "Josiah and Confidential Daniau. What a pair."

He stopped a laugh with his fist. "Why do you care, anyway? Am I not satisfactory?"

"On the contrary." My gaze flickered down.

There is a short silence—one that I endured while dearly hoping that he couldn't understand it for all that it was. The silence had hands but I didn't know what they were after, or what they were doing feeling around so deep inside my heart.

"Now."

I looked up.

"Reach into your right pocket, and take out your glove."

Uncharacteristically, I did so without asking questions. My glove was there, wrapped up as I had left it, but it was heavier. Much heavier. There was something inside the glove. Without even glancing up, I reached inside and my fingers found the object—cold, smooth silver. I didn't know what it was until I brought it out under the dim light, letting it suspend from my fingers, almost dauntingly. Glittering. And my heart fell through my stomach.

"My locket," the words slipped out on my next breath. I brought my gaze up to the blue eyes across from me. "Where did you get this…?"

For a few seconds he just looked at me, with his elbows on the card table. Obviously pleased with my apparent wide-eyed shock. And once I folded the locket in my palm and took a slow breath, I brought myself to ask him the only question I could think of.

"Are you Nico?"

His gaze snapped to mine. Almost considering the answer before wording it.

"I'm afraid I couldn't say, Signora."

"So…essentially, you are?"

Josiah sighed, looking down at his hands. "Essentially…there's a lot of things I can't tell you right now. I might be able to tell you someday, but I doubt it. Essentially…" He glanced back up. Into my eyes. "I'm sorry, Samantha. I'm sorry if I've crossed the line with you. I know I have. I can't explain anything right now, but I'm sure you'll find out eventually, and I just want you to know that I'm sorry. I don't always play by the rules."

I was confused to the highest degree, but I gave a shallow nod anyway. "On that score I'm sure I can show solidarity. I don't often find myself playing by the rules, either." The locket found its way back into my cardigan pocket.

He listened, then nodded once. "Well then I guess our work here is done." Josiah rose from the table and I followed suit, still clutching my right hand glove.

"I hope at least we've pleased Arlecchino with this conversation. Although if someone asked me what we just talked about, I'd have no idea how to answer them."

He smiled. "Neither would I, Samantha."

"Well," I glanced around the room, noting that Tazza was nowhere. "I guess this is goodbye."

"Not forever, I hope. I'm sure." Those eyes. I knew them. I'd seen them before. Though where, I had no idea.

"No, I'm sure we'll meet again. Soon." I nodded and managed a smile, and then I left. I turned and headed for the front door, assuming that now was a good time to leave. Tazza wouldn't want a report from me until we were alone, I was quite sure of that. So I let myself out into the cool night air.

It was dark and crisp and shadowed. I'd slipped my mask off and it was in my hand with the glove. I felt numb in my head. The walk back to the Ca felt shorter than usual and the soft, dark carpet was under my feet before I knew it.

My bedroom was empty—I was assuming that Helena had gone out. I snapped on a light and set my things down on the bed, reaching up to ease the blonde wig off my head, then freeing my long titian hair from its tie. I drifted over to the desk beside the door, pulling the pins out of "my" up-do one by one and lining them up on the desk. _One, two, three, four…._

Josiah Daniau was like a puzzle. I couldn't figure him out—at least not at first glance. What did he mean, he'd crossed the line? What did he mean, he couldn't tell me if he was Nico or not? What was that look in his eyes when I told him that I didn't have a choice? He got something about me. He saw something about me. I could tell. It was somewhere hidden deep in all that blue.

 _Fifteen, sixteen. Wait._

I ran my fingers through the blonde wig again, trying to find the one I'd missed. Nothing. I looked back down to the desk, counting the pins again. _Sixteen._ But I knew for sure there were seventeen. I'd counted when I'd put them in.

For a few solid moments, I thought the pin had just fallen out. But then I remembered the mask and the glove on my bed and Helena's white cardigan that I hadn't taken off yet. I reached into the left pocket for my other glove. And it wasn't there.

* * *

 _Notes: Hello, everyone! Thank you for reading this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you feel like it! I so appreciate your feedback and encouragement. :)_

 _FlightFeathers:_ _I could never be a spy hahaha. It's a hard job! But thankfully Joe is sneaky. ;) All your questions will be answered soon! I hope you liked this installment (it's a long one! *nervous laughter*)_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

 **Joe**

"If you let me down on this, Daniau, so help me God you will be _gone._ " Tazza's threatening voice echoed in the dampness of the dark alley behind the club. "Do you understand me? Gone."

"Yeah, I-I've got it."

"So tell me what you learned."

Tazza didn't reply. He just stood there, with his arms folded over his chest, looking at me. He had a mafia face. Whatever that looked like.

"Okay, well…I didn't learn much. I was trying to be discreet, like you said. I was told not to show transparency, so I didn't—but that comes with the cost of not learning much."

He still said nothing. Waiting.

"She must be staying somewhere close by, because she walked here. I watched her leave." I intentionally left out the part about me wanting to follow her, but not having the chance with Tazza breathing down my neck.

He shrugged. "She could have taken a cab."

"She said her roommate's name was Helena Berg, a snoopy woman who reads through her mail."

His eyes narrowed. "Tell me more."

I took a slow breath. "Okay, um…her favorite color is blue."

"Something of worth, you idiot!" He somehow made the word sound worse than it was. Maybe it had to do with his thick Italian accent.

"She said that she wasn't told what the meeting was about! She said that she was just told to be at the Casa dei Giochi tonight, and she didn't know why!"

Tazza froze, looking at me but not really. "She lies."

"Don't we all?"

The death stare came back. "I would hope that _you_ are not lying to me right now, Daniau. For you know that to lie about one thing too many times will eventually turn it back into the truth."

 _Huh. How's that for reverse psychology?_

"True, I guess."

"What else did she say?"

"Uh, she asked me…" I ran my sweaty palms over my black jeans. "She asked me if I was Nico. Towards the end there, she was wondering if I was really him."

"Nico Petit?"

I nodded quickly.

"She does not know of Nico Petit."

"Well apparently she does, 'cause—"

"I mean that she _should not know_ of Nico."

I looked at him for a long moment. "But Tazza, Nico was arrested. He was put in prison. It's all over the papers, everyone knows about him now."

He sighed/growled, cutting me off, "I know that, you fool. But what the public does not know yet, is that Nico will be arriving in France tomorrow morning."

"What?" I felt my eyes widen. "You mean he's going to escape?"

"Of course he is. He already has. Do you think I would let the police claw his entrails out through his mouth in search for the evidence they need to ruin our lives?"

 _That was…unnecessarily graphic._

I swallowed, lowering my voice a little. "How did he escape?"

"With the help of Gina, of course, but I cannot go into details. Not with you."

"But why is he going to France? Will he be safe there?"

" _Safer._ We have underground protection there. Eventually he will be transferred to Russia or Germany. But that is not the point." he paused, taking a tired breath. "The question now is…how did Samantha know of this? She was surely aware of Nico's imprisonment, but not his escape. No one knows of it, besides myself, Gina and Antonio."

"I think…"

He looked up at me. Death stare.

"I, uh…think maybe she just guessed."

"Guessed?" Tazza looked disgusted. "DI star pupil spies do not _guess,_ Daniau. Samantha Quick does _not guess!"_

"Then she must've heard something. She must've heard someone slip about Nico escaping prison tonight or else she wouldn't have asked me if I was really him."

He thought about it for a second. Leaning against his thick hand which was planted on the brick wall. "No one would have _slipped,_ as you say. I did not, and although I doubt Antonio's ability to be discreet, I know that he would never speak for fear of losing his life."

"What about Gina?"

"Do not question Gina."

Man, the way he looked at me when he said it—like I didn't have to ask.

"I'm inclined to believe that you led Samantha to think something she normally wouldn't have." Tazza crossed his arms again, looking all the more mafia-ish. "Why else would Samantha ask you if you were Nico? What implication did you give her? What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything." And that was true. Right? I didn't technically _say_ anything. I just told her to look in her right pocket, and that alone would not make her think that I was Nico.

"Well what did you say when she asked if you were Nico?"

"I uh. I told her that I couldn't say."

Tazza grunted. Sort of approvingly, I think? Then he nodded and said, "The first tactful thing you've done."

 _Ha. If only you knew, bro._

The whole thing was confusing. I had to sort it out somehow. It was like a room full of something that I couldn't see because I only had a stupid little flashlight. But as soon as Tazza dropped this interrogation thing and let me go back to the Argon building, I found the light switch. And turned it on. And there was nothing Samantha Quick could do about it.

I had spent my insomnia listening to the voice in the recordings on the GdiF radio and learning her accent, her pitch, what words she used and how she used them. That night at the stakeout, Sophia had told her to keep her eyes open, and she said, "I'm not convinced I have much of a choice." The same words Samantha Quick used, when we talked of her roommate reading her mail. The same _words._ The same _voice._ The same _girl_. Samantha Quick was the girl sitting across from me, was the girl in the radio, was the girl on the rooftop who kicked me in the stomach. And that only meant one thing—she wasn't really Samantha Quick.

"Dang!" I whispered, tearing through my backpack to find the GdiF radio buried somewhere inside.

It was dark, but there were streams of bleached streetlight breathing through the windows and that was enough to see by. Within a few seconds, I had everything in my hands. The radio. The white glove. The hair pin. The signed card. She hadn't noticed when I'd stolen them, which was perfect. And even though it wasn't what I should've done, it was what I had to do. I needed these fragments of her in my fingers.

The girl I'd talked with wasn't who she said she was. But even though she wasn't Samantha Quick, she was just as much of a mystery to me. Just as much of a blur at the edge of a photograph. The things in my hands were all I had, and they tortured me. Everything inside of me needed to know who she was. I was going to figure it out. And nothing was going to stop me.

I dialed Sophia right away, trying not to get too distracted. I didn't care that it was late. And apparently she didn't believe in sleeping, either.

"This is Sophia."

"Hey, it's Joe. I've got an update for you." I pulled in a breath and dropped the bomb on my exhale. "Nico has escaped."

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _OH MY GOODNESS YOUR REVIEW ON THAT LAST CHAPTER BRIGHTENED MY LIFE X1000000 *hugs you and gives you waffles* Seriously asdfghjkl I probably can't even express how much that means to me. :''''') Joe is definitely the dream boy. 3333 UGH WHY CAN'T HE BE REAL? It's not fair. I'm just so happy you liked that chapter... YOU'RE SO KIND TO ME. THANK YOU. I'm going to have to go back and read that review every time I'm feeling discouraged about my writing. :') I hope you enjoy reading this chapter! It's much shorter lol._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

 **Nancy**

The morning after the interview was like the morning after a raging fever. I felt stiff and somewhat sore, lying in bed, looking up at the painted ceiling. I knew it must have been late—somewhere around ten o'clock—but I didn't really care. Despite the cold, I had been sweating in my sheets the night before. While I wrestled with insomnia and Helena snored away. While I tossed and turned and tried my best to suffocate the voices and words and looks that swore they didn't deserve to die, not like this.

Goodness, what was wrong with me? I couldn't recall ever feeling like this. I had to keep reminding myself that this was a case. I had to keep pulling my thoughts away from the interview. Of course, there was valuable information I had to relay to Sophia, because that was my job. But somehow, I couldn't just focus on the facts—because they came with their dance partners, who pulled on my mind like children wanting attention. The answers came with the words, which came with the voice, which came with the deep, rich and almost sweet undertones. The card trick, the spearmint, the way he stole my glove and my hairpin without me noticing. The smiles, the mask, the blue eyes behind it. The blue eyes that felt like something I wanted to know. Something I had always been missing out on.

I refocused and got out of bed, grabbing some clothes from my wardrobe and shutting myself into the bathroom. I glanced up and found my reflection looking back at me. Staring at the bedheaded girl in the mirror for a minute, I felt my thoughts wander again.

" _I know things about you that you haven't told anyone. And I can tell what you're thinking of."_

I closed my eyes, finding only the memory of him in the darkness there. I had to stop this. It was getting to be kind of…I don't know. Ridiculous. So I did. I pulled in a deep breath and turned on the water, deciding that I would sing in the shower to distract myself. I don't know how well that worked.

Really, I had more than enough to distract myself with. Sophia, for instance, was long overdue for a catch-up. I'd have to call her and tell her all about the letter from Scaramuccia and the interview and Josiah Daniau. I'd also have to tell her about the safe and secure store and the code that didn't open the door.

So I called Sophia and went through all the motions like the perfect detective I pretended to be. It was all smooth, all fact, all cold. I told her what had happened. I stepped in and turned up the lights and shut off the music and pried apart the dance partners and handed her the nice, neat, clean, factual ones. I took the smiles out of the interview. I took the raised eyebrows out of the questions. I took the blue out of his eyes. And I gave her the facts.

"Josiah Daniau?" Sophia asked, sounding surprised at the mention of his name.

"Yes…" I said. "Have you heard of him before?"

"No," she declared immediately. "Never in my life. But he sounds like an apprentice, of sorts. I am sure the crime ring cannot have very high hopes for this Josiah Daniau. Perhaps he was hired as a security extra, or something of the sort."

I felt one of my eyebrows raise. I didn't remember mentioning this piece of information before. "Yes, he _is_ working in security, currently. But according to the letter from Scaramuccia, it sounds like Josiah is going to replace Nico. In the near future."

The pager went silent for a long few seconds. A gondolier sang from somewhere outside the open balcony door.

"This letter you mention from Scaramuccia. I would like to see it." Sophia said.

"Oh. Of course."

She then told me to go to Banco dell' Oro and drop off the letter for her to collect later. I agreed, but I couldn't help wondering why she didn't seem to just take my word for it. I mean, I _was_ the one hired for investigation, right? Maybe it was just my imagination, but I was starting to feel like…I don't know. Like I wasn't needed all that much anymore. Which was strange, because I'd singlehandedly helped with progressing this case further than any of the GdiF agents had. And we were this close— _this_ close—to wrapping things up. But Sophia was backing off. Not calling me so much. Not keeping me so up-to-date with developments. It was starting to get on my nerves.

"The safe and secure store is what we must focus on now," she told me, redirecting the topic. "If we can figure out how to unlock that door, Nancy…who knows what we might find? And if we find stolen artifacts, then this case will be closed."

Of course, I knew all of this. Did Sophia think I'd forgotten about the safe and secure store? Oh no, I was only the one who had _found_ it _._ Maybe it was petty and stupid, but by the time I got off the phone with Detective Leporace, I was feeling my blood coming to a boil. For the next few minutes, all I could do was just stand on the balcony in the bright sunlight with my damp palms pressed against the warm stone railing.

Maybe it was the case and everything I had been thinking about over the past few days. Or maybe it was Sophia and the way she'd cast me aside and deemed me unpromising, Or maybe it was the fact that I didn't know anyone here—I didn't _really_ know them—and it was hard to make friends out of suspects and it was hard to get people to trust me.

As I stood there on that balcony with my hands gripping the railing tighter and my eyebrows dragging themselves closer together and my eyes eventually closing to trap the tears inside, I realized how homesick I really was. I just wanted to get on a plane that afternoon and go back to River Heights. I'd never remembered feeling this way on a case before. Usually I was so focused, with my guard up, my eyes open, my heart beating in my throat. But this time, my heart felt sick. Aching. Pulling the covers up over its head and groaning a fevered, "I really don't feel good." I wanted home. I wanted the faces I knew, the voices I loved. I wanted anything—any fragment of a something that would remind me of home. I was desperate for it. Desperate enough to call Ned Nickerson.

Pulling myself together and pushing the tears off my cheeks, I stepped back into the sun-ripened bedroom and sank down on the floor, taking the rotary phone off the table and into my lap.

I just had to hear his voice. Because it reminded me of home. It reminded me of the Marvin's Christmas party and drinking hot cocoa and talking forever. It felt like only yesterday when I closed my eyes and remembered the smell of snickerdoodles and cedar burning and laughter and champagne. How Ned and I found ourselves sitting on one of the giant, plushy couches in front of the fireplace, me going on and on about all of my travels and him just sitting there and listening to the stories with something bright in his eyes.

One taste of home, I was sure, would heal my aching heart. I was hoping that this one taste would come in the form of his voice. I held my breath as it rang—once, twice, three times.

"Hello, you've reached Ned Nickerson. I'm unavailable right now, but…"

I sighed, feeling my shoulders drop in the sync with my heart. I debated hanging up, but then the beep happened, and I found myself still sitting there, holding the phone like a dummy. I sucked in a deep breath.

"Uh, hi Ned…it's me. Nancy." I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that could shield me from the total awkwardness I was feeling. "I just wanted to check in with you, see how things are going. I'm sorry I haven't been calling you lately, I've just been busy. Y'know, with…the case. And everything. Call me back when you have the chance. I miss chatting about normal stuff like the weather and iPhone glitches and stupid chemistry tests." I took another breath, somewhat shaky. "So yeah. Talk to you later, I guess."

I put the phone back down on the receiver, reaching up to run my fingers across my forehead.

"Gosh, Nancy, that was…pathetic."

Pulling myself up to my feet, I shoved the phone back onto the side table and straightened my dark blue cardigan.

Why hadn't he answered the phone? It was his cell, so he would definitely have it on him at all times. _What is wrong with you, Nancy? He's probably in classes, duh._

"Right." I heard myself sigh the word, running a hand through my long titian hair, turning around sharply to face the door like this was some kind of duel. But the door didn't bear a gun—instead? Guess. Another white envelope. I froze. Because I hadn't seen that when I'd come out of the bathroom from my shower.

Numbly, I reached down and picked it up—flap, pull, unfold, read.

 _You know, I'm never far away._

What on earth did _that_ mean? _Who_ was never far away? _Who_ was this? I had to find out. My inner detective was ignited and suddenly there was this bonfire in my chest. I had to figure out who was sending these notes. There was no way I was going to shrug it off. Not this time.

"Helena?" I asked, bursting out the bedroom door and making her jump, ever so slightly.

She twisted around in her chair. "Vhat is it?" Raising one of her thin eyebrows like she always did.

"Um," I bit back a little smirk, trying to shut the door after me with a little more grace. "Well I was just wondering, since you seem to hang around here in this lobby a lot…"

Helena was getting impatient. She wanted to roll her eyes, I could tell. "Oh please, Nancy. Out vith it."

"Well I was just wondering if you saw...anyone. Like, come in here and…slip a note under my door, or something."

Helena pursed her lips. "Noo, I'm afraid not. Unless it was the new handyman Margherita hired, which I simply cannot imagine." She chuckled a little, like this was funny. "He vas here earlier, but he left a little vhile ago. Lunch break or somezing like zat."

"Ah." I looked around for a second. "Okay. Thank you."

Then I fled to the stairs which led up to the altana, feeling Helena's gaze trailing after me as I disappeared through the dark hallway.

"Ah, Nancy. Buongiorno." Margherita pronounced in that indefinitely bored voice of hers. She was laying in her lawn chair like usual, only this time she was wearing the nice fancy sunglasses from the GdiF.

I smiled half-heartedly, thinking about how I gave her those bugged glasses—and how there was probably no point in bugging them, because she was the most unlikely suspect I'd ever encountered on a case. The only possible motive I could think of was this: she was orchestrating the art thefts to sell them and get some money because she was going to lose her lovely Ca Nascosta pretty soon if she didn't pay off all the debt it had collected over the years. And organizing a crime ring to pull all this off seemed pretty far-fetched for Margherita. Especially since all she did was sit there in the sun all day, when she was perfectly capable of getting a job _somewhere._

I pulled in a deep breath of the crisp, yellow light that had the altana under attack. "Goodmorning."

Margherita made something of a discontented face at my horribly American greeting. "You are _never_ without questions are you, dear. Go on, I am listening."

I opened my mouth to ask, but was promptly cut off.

"If this is about that 'phantom thief' you seem to be so _very_ interested in, let me assure you—for I do not know if you American teenagers are accustomed to reading the newspaper—he has been arrested." Margherita glanced over the rims of her shades at me. "And good riddance. I hope he is sentenced to a long, delicious life imprisonment." She sat back in her chair, seeming contented with that speech.

I managed a slightly amused grin. "That's actually not what I was going to bring up, but since we're on the topic…" I could've sworn I saw Margherita roll her eyes behind her polarized lenses. "Do you think he's hiding something from the police?"

She shrugged. "I do not know. I do not care… Does it matter?"

"Well, sort of. I mean, don't you want to know if he's the one who stole your figurine?"

"Of course I do!" She seemed offended by that. "That figurine had a _very_ great value to me—it was a historical artifact, you know. As well as a piece of art."

I nodded. Because I knew this already.

"But to answer your question, I do not need the police or the word of this villain to confirm my suspicions at all. I _know_ he is the thief."

I wanted to ask how she knew, but I could tell it was a matter of pride. So I shrugged off that urge and moved onto a better question.

"Do you think he's being threatened by someone? Threatened to not talk to the police?"

"I find that very unlikely." Margherita laughed. "What would they threaten him with? Death? I very much hope he is already facing that—and getting exactly what he deserves."

I nodded again, slower this time. Not really sure what else to say. So in my usual fashion, I didn't say anything. I just mumbled a "talk to you later," and she said something back in Italian. I glanced around at the small rooftop garden, noticing something else on the table next to the slice of lined notebook paper. It was a Scopa card—I recognized the design on the back. Though I couldn't see if Margherita's eyes were closed, I could tell by her body language. Head tilted back, bored frown on her suntanned face. I swallowed and approached the table, reaching for the card.

"I did not write that for you to read!"

 _Darn it. I guess I need to practice the art of deception a little more._

"Don't worry, I…wasn't going to read it."

Margherita made some kind of indignant noise as I disappeared through the door, deciding to come back later when she wasn't there and hope that the Scopa card would be.

Helena was back to scratching away with her pen and the tesserae table was still in shambles. I slipped through the front door, and out into the full violence of the sunshine. It was warm out. Had Helena really said that the new handyman was on lunch break? Had I really slept so very late?

The patio looked the same as it had the day before—same shadows, same light, same newspaper, same envelope with my name on it? _No, that definitely was not there yesterday._

Feeling my eyebrows embrace, I stepped over to the table and flipped the parcel around in my hands.

 _Nancy_

The letter was no surprise. In fact, I'd been expecting it, in a premonitory kind of way. Curiosity swelled up in my heart all the same. I tore open the envelope.

 _If you can, please meet me at Rialto Market at eleven o'clock this morning._

 _I can't stop thinking about you._

Rialto Market. Eleven o'clock. Mystery man was mine. I felt a smile break over my lips. Then I checked my wristwatch. Twelve forty-five. I was late. Would he still be there? I had no way of knowing, so instead I ran. Ran to the river, got the cheapest boat and stepped out on the cobblestone in less than twenty minutes. My hands were tingling the whole time. Until I weaved through the afternoon bustle and over to the flower stand, where there were a few round wooden tables put off to the side next to a wrought iron fence looking out to the river. And that's where my gaze fell.

Because that's where he sat—my mystery man. With his back to me and his head on his fist, staring off at the weather-lashed apartments across the water. White t-shirt.

Though I would never want to admit it or get caught doing it, I smiled. A big, wide, foolish smile. And I pulled my fingers through my own long waves of titian.

I crossed the patio noiselessly, stopping at his table and placing one hand next to his elbow. And I didn't even have to say anything. He looked down, and, throwing my hand a surprised glance, twisted around to jump out of his chair and exclaim my name like it was something royal.

The ache in my heart melted away. The whole thing felt like a blob of yummy ointment and a big fat Band-Aid slapped on my homesick. I felt like a little girl, but I didn't care. I fell into his arms and hugged him so tight, I almost knocked the wind out of him. Then I let my head fall against his shoulder. Cologne. The smile was like the sun—it just wouldn't leave my face alone.

"Oh my gosh, Ned. I'm so glad you're here."

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _Happy Belated Birthday! EEEP I'M SO HAPPY YOU LIKE THIS STORY. 3 Your reviews popping into my inbox seriously make my day every time. :') I KNOW RIGHT Joe's POV is definitely my favorite to write. *incoherent fangirling* HE'S JUST TOO PRECIOUS. I hope you enjoy this installment! :D_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

 **Joe**

It wasn't even a mission. Not really. Because I wasn't doing it for ATAC, and Frank wasn't there. Going overseas to work on a case just didn't feel right without him. But they said that he wasn't needed. Or rather, they said he was needed to work on stuff back home. Which was the nice way of saying that he wasn't needed.

Apparently the GdiF had come crawling to ATAC's doorstep, begging on their hands and knees to please give them an agent to help with this case—because the police were baffled and apparently so was everyone else. I wondered why they wanted an outsider barging in on their operation, but I didn't ask questions. I just did as I was told. ATAC handed me over like some kind of rent-a-secret-agent deal. And that's how the story goes. At least, that's how my interpretation of the story goes.

Why me? Because the GdiF was willing to pay for the best of the best. That's what Frank told me through a sigh as he handed me the fat manila envelope with the word CLASSIFIED stamped across the front in red ink. It felt strange to sit there at my own desk and open my own letter from ATAC and read it silently to myself while Frank waited for me to finish. It felt strange to not dig around for fake pockets in an envelope or video game box, trying to find that unlabeled DVD hidden somewhere inside. To not sit on the floor of our bedroom with our eyes glued to the TV, knowing that we'd never hear it again, then watching as the disc self-destructed into a lame infomercial.

It felt strange to get up early the next morning and pack my bags while Frank sat at his desk and pored over books. Giving him a brother hug/shoulder smack, then taking off for the airport. Having nobody to talk to sleep on the plane. That's why it didn't feel like a mission to me. It wasn't just because I was working for a foreign undercover crime-buster organization. Although that was kind of weird, too.

But now? Now the pace was starting to pick up. Because now I was going undercover within my undercover-ness. If that makes sense. Basically, I was going to figure out who this Samantha Quick girl _really_ was. And the GdiF? Well, they weren't going to know about it. Not until I decided to let them know.

I could barely sleep the night after the interview. All I could think about was her eyes and how I wanted to reach across the table and pull that mask off her face because it was too beautiful to hide. But I was too shy to do that, so instead I just sweet-talked her into oblivion and pick-pocketed her when she wasn't looking. It was the only gentlemanly thing to do at that point.

I had to focus if I was ever going to figure her out. I had the Scopa card, and that was all I needed. It was the one she'd signed her name to—or rather, the one she'd accidentally started to sign her name to, but then stopped and blushed and scratched it out with the permanent marker. _Nan_ —and that's where she'd stopped. Which meant if I could just get a directory of GdiF agents' names, I could wrap this thing up like _that._

I woke up early, feeling like I was finally on a real mission. One freezing shower later, I dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, grabbed my phone and tore out of the Argon building like a madman. I wore sunglasses because it was incredibly bright outside. They also made me look like a creeper, which is always a nice bonus. Dialing Sophia, I found the nearest bench and let one conversed foot hang out on it—making me look like a purposeless teenager, which is also always a nice bonus.

"This is Sophia."

"Yo. How come you always answer the phone the same way?"

"…Who is this?"

"Joe, of course."

"…"

I cleared my throat. "Anyway, um. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up some place to go over the interview and everything."

"What interview?" She said sarcastically.

"Y'know, the interview. With Samantha Quick. Last night." I raised an eyebrow, my gaze floating up to the busted windows on the third floor.

"No, Joseph. I know nothing of this 'interview' you speak of. Perhaps I would, if someone had been so kind as to tell me about it _earlier._ "

Ouch. This was gonna be bad.

"Right. Sorry, Sophia. I really am. It just…it slipped my mind. I guess." _Man. Smooth talk, why hast thou abandoned me?_ "I just assumed that you knew about it. I thought you knew about every communication. Or whatever."

"No, you did not. Now please—let us not waste any time with lies. Or as you say, 'little scraps of untrue statistics and _stuff.'_ "

"Okay." I bit back a smile. "So…do you want to meet up? For coffee, or something?"

"No coffee," she sighed. "Banco dell' Oro in fifteen minutes."

"Sounds good. I don't like coffee, anyway."

 _Click._

"Dang," I blew out a sigh, pocketing my phone and deciding to get a head start on finding this Banco dell' Oro thing. I wanted to be the first one there—it might have offset my jerkishness a little. Sophia had a hard time with letting things slide. I also had a strong hunch that she was one of those glass-is-half-empty types.

It didn't take long to find Banco dell' Oro. Looking around, I thought I was the first one there—the coast was clear, save a few wayward pigeons. But then I ducked inside the ATM booth and all my hopes were dashed.

"Good. You're not late."

 _Not_ late? Yep, she was definitely the half-empty type.

"Hey. So, um…" I couldn't help but get distracted, looking over her shoulder at what she was doing on the screen of the portal. She was swiping through the pages so fast, it was hard to see. But from what I could gather, it looked like a very long list of names—a directory of GdiF agents, maybe?

Sophia closed out of the portal and yanked her bank card from the slot, killing the screen back to a neutral welcome message. I made note of which pocket she slipped the card into.

"So," she said, looking up. "Tell me what happened."

"Um, well…" I tried to refocus. "I got a call yesterday morning, from Enrico Tazza. He told me that he wanted me to do an interview with Samantha Quick that night. So I did."

"You saw Samantha Quick?"

I nodded, noticing the way Sophia's eyes wanted to widen just a little. "Well, not entirely. I mean, they're making us all wear masks now, at the Casa dei Giochi. For whatever reason."

"Did you learn anything about Samantha?"

I slowly shook my head. "No, not really… She's very reserved. Quiet. Secretive."

"Good."

I'd never had one little word confuse me so much in my life.

"Good?" I heard myself reiterate before I could help it. "How is that good? Don't you want to know more about Samantha Quick? Wouldn't that be valuable information?"

"I—I did not mean it like that Joseph. Of _course_ we want to know more about Samantha—and all of them, really. But this information cannot be learned at the expense of our own secrecy. Do you understand?"

"Yep, that's exactly what Tazza told me." I sighed, leaning back against the wall. "After a while of fighting for both sides, I've gotten to know everyone's battle tactics."

"But you are _not_ fighting for both sides—you are fighting for _one_ side, and masquerading as the other."

I nodded slowly, playing passive.

"You will disclose any and all information to me, once you have learned it. Yes?" She reached up for her sunglasses, which were resting on the top of her head—she was getting ready to leave.

"Yes, but…"

"But what?"

"Why _just_ you?" I looked up from the floor, meeting her gaze—watching her eyebrows bend from confused to emotionless. "I know what the GdiF is, Sophia. There's hundreds of agents, permanent or temporary… I'm just one of them, and yet I'm allowed _zero_ interaction with anyone but you. Why is that?"

She tried to hide it, but I could tell she was shocked and didn't know what to say for a few seconds. "It's policy, Joseph. And it is also not your place to ask such questions."

"Not my place? I'm the one who's shuffling cards under the table here, hoping that the gun pressed to my head isn't actually loaded—"

"And _I'm_ the one pulling strings to keep you safe, Joseph." She took one step closer, lowering her voice. "Would you rather take the chance of going back to America in a body bag?"

 _I take that chance all the time._ I swallowed, not replying.

"I didn't think so," she whispered, straightening up. "Now. You do as I say, and all goes as planned. Understand?"

I pulled in a shallow breath, nodding once.

"Good."

"What are you going to do about Nico?" I asked.

Sophia shrugged one shoulder, drawing in a slow breath. "There is nothing to be done about Nico. The police are tracking him. You say that his plan is to move on to France, so the search will be continued there. Hopefully they find him, before too long."

I nodded slowly. "And hopefully I don't get executed for leaking information."

"You're a spy, Joseph. There's no way around it. Now, I must get back to work and allow you to do the same." Sophia turned to leave, but I smoothly cut in front of her, getting the door.

"Please, let me." I said, easing it open and holding it for her.

She didn't even toss me a second glance, slipping her sunglasses over her eyes. That perfect moment was all I needed—my hand slipped down and softly liberated the bank card from her pocket. It was pressed into my palm as the door swung shut and I was left alone inside the ATM booth. My heart rate was getting up there. I spun around and jammed the card into the slot, watching as the screen melted away to Sophia's user interface.

"Okay, let's see here…files…directories… _agent directory._ " I felt myself smile, tapping the icon. I quickly found the alphabetical navigation and started skimming for a name that started with _Nan_ until I found it—shining against the black screen like some form of magic. I think I stared at it for a full minute, shocked and scared and already falling hard for the way it sounded on my tongue.

"Nancy Drew."

I clicked on the name to see more information.

"Physical description…titian hair, blue eyes…location for carnevale predetermined…Ca Nascosta." I scanned the information one last time, deciding that I'd gathered all I needed to know. Then I reached down and yanked the card from the mouth of the machine. But when I turned around, my heart almost stopped beating as Sophia swung open the door and stepped inside, swiping off her sunglasses to reveal her wide eyes.

"I see that I'm going to have to keep a closer watch on you from now on," she hissed the words, tearing the bank card out of my hands. "My _God!_ "

"I'm sorry, Sophia. I just…I needed—"

"Perhaps I was wrong, Joseph. Perhaps you aren't fighting for either side. Perhaps you are masquerading for everyone—and fighting for _yourself._ "

I pulled in a breath, feeling the venom in those words as they brought my blood to a boil. All I could do was look at her and nod slowly. "You're right, Sophia—and you're doing the _very same thing._ "

For the first time, I could see everything in her deep brown eyes. First it was shock, and then it was something else—something lingering, haunting. Something that stole away words like a disease and left her with nothing to say. She spun around, shoving open the door and letting herself out into the courtyard. And I just stood there and tried to catch my breath. My mind was reeling.

What was Sophia Leporace doing? What was her motive? I knew that she was specifically keeping me out of contact with other agents. I knew that was why she couldn't give me a radio at the stakeout—because she didn't want me communicating with anyone. That's why I was left to fumble through the dark like a thief, stumble across Nancy Drew and scare her half to death. She had no way of knowing that I was an agent, because nobody had told her.

Everything started piecing together in my mind, making perfect sense. The GdiF hadn't hired me— _Sophia_ had hired me. I probably wasn't even on file. Sophia had done something totally not legal, making ATAC _think_ that I was being hired by an undercover crime-busting organization when really I was following through with a private investigation without even knowing it. I knew it _now,_ but there was no way I was telling ATAC. Not until I figured out why Sophia would do something like this. Maybe it was a bad habit, but that's how I was trained—I couldn't just hand over a mystery to somebody else. I had to get to the bottom of it myself.

But first, I had to find Nancy Drew. I couldn't help it—those blue eyes were all I could think about and I knew that if I didn't get her out of my head I could never stay focused on the mission. So I found the closest computer (which happened to be in a really fancy library) and printed off a note for her in the most generic font ever.

 _Nancy,_

 _If you can, please meet me at Rialto Market at eleven o'clock this morning._

 _I can't stop thinking about you._

So yeah, it was totally mushy. I felt like I was thirteen. But I slipped it inside an envelope anyway and hand-delivered it to the Ca Nascosta (which consequentially ended up being right across the canal from my unofficial lodgings—naturally, this fact was going to be distracting beyond belief.)

I dumped the letter on the table inside the Ca's front patio, hoping that she'd find it eventually. I'd printed her first name across the front in my best handwriting. For a few seconds I just stood there, looking at it. Feeling like tearing it up and throwing it in the river. Dang, why was I so nervous all of a sudden? Was this totally idiotic? _No._ I forced myself to get out of there and leave the envelope behind. It was ten thirty, which meant that I had to get my butt to Rialto Market if I was ever going to see her.

Why did this matter so much to me? I don't really know. I kept asking myself that question as I sat there at one of the tables, looking out at the warped reflections dancing in the wake of the gondolas. Eleven o'clock turned into twelve o'clock turned into one o'clock, and eventually I had to leave. I'd seen a lot of people come in and out of that market—from little kids to old ladies to high-schoolers—but I never saw _her._

There was a flower stall set up near the tables and I couldn't help but notice how the girl who worked there kept looking over at me. She was probably wondering why I found so much enjoyment in sitting around in the hot sun for two hours. She even slipped out of the canopy to talk to me at one point. Normally I would have totally been up for talking to a pretty girl with such a bright smile, but there was just one minor hitch—she spoke Italian and I didn't. I think she asked me if I was waiting for someone. Either that, or she asked me if I wanted gelato…or if I wanted a map. In any case, the answer was no. She apparently understood foreigners like me enough to know that no meant no and then she smiled and went back to work.

"Well that was a total fail," I groaned when I was back at the Argon building, back in my room, sitting on the floor, staring at the things that I'd stolen from Nancy Drew.

There had to be another way to see her. I was _not_ going to give up this quickly. So I thought of a better idea. It meant either going back to that library I'd found earlier or trusting that my handwriting was good enough. I went with the latter because I was sick of asking people for directions. I dug around in my suitcase until I found a notebook and a pen, then I scrawled across a fresh page:

 _Samantha,_

 _Please come to the Casa dei Giochi tonight at 9pm. Arlecchino needs to speak with you._

I was _this_ close to signing the note, but then I decided against it. Because she might think the whole thing wasn't legit or something. She would be right, because it wasn't legit. Tazza didn't want to see her, but I did.

I grabbed her radio and got out of Campo dei Frari. For the second time that day, I found my way to the Ca Nascosta and delivered the letter. The sun was starting to drop, which meant that I had to get over to the Casa dei Giochi myself. The evening predicted hours of boredom, but there was the hope of seeing Nancy Drew, so I didn't mind the idea of Greco bossing me around.

Everything went as planned. I showed up at the club and started my usual practice of making things up. First Greco had me working on a circuit that needed to be rewired, but I was watching the clock the whole time. Once eight-thirty rolled around, I started muttering about how the front entrance cam was having some kind of interference.

"Is that so?" Greco mumbled, shrugging his shoulders. "It looks perfectly fine over here."

"Hm, that's strange…" I shrugged, feeling around for the wires in the back. I shot another glance at the clock. Ten minutes. That was enough time—she might've even decided to show up early. I found the power cord and yanked it out.

"Dang," I whispered, letting my hands tangle up into my hair.

"What is it now?"

"The power blew on my side." I groaned, falling back into my swivel chair.

I could almost hear Greco rolling his eyes. "Did you fix the circuit?"

"Yeah, but… I don't think that's the problem. I think there's something wrong with the camera itself. I'm going to check it out, kay?" I stood up and made my way to the back door. "The power might go for a minute on your side—I just want to take a look at it."

Greco shrugged like he didn't care. "Sì, sì…do what you must."

I grabbed my mask and slipped out the back door. Once I got to the front of the building, I stepped up onto the edge of the window. The fix was easy—I tore the power cords out of the security camera mounted above the door. And then I waited for her to show up, leaning against the wall and assuming the loser teenager vibe.

It was a few minutes before she made her appearance. I heard her boots first, clicking against the cobblestone of the courtyard. Then she stepped closer, coming into the soft white light. She didn't have her mask on—but I did. She was wearing the same red dress, only this time her arms were bare. Her curly blonde hair was down and crowning her face, which I found myself absolutely staring at.

"Josiah…" The name fell across her lips as she stopped to look up at me.

"Samantha," I said, letting my gaze fall to the ground for a second. "You're…you're not wearing your mask."

"Oh, gosh," She reached up to press her fingers to her forehead. "I…completely forgot about that."

"It doesn't matter to me." I straightened up, taking one step closer. I felt like I would burst if I couldn't see that intense blue in her eyes.

"Yes, well…" She met my gaze, looking like she suddenly didn't know what to say. "I think it matters to Tazza."

"But you're not here to see _him._ " The words came out quiet—almost shaky. "You're not going in there."

"Yes, actually…I am," She stepped towards the door, reaching out for the handle. "I was told that Tazza wanted to speak with—"

"I lied."

Her hand froze, then fell back to her side. " _You_ lied?"

I nodded slowly, looking down into her eyes—noticing how the light reflected there.

"You mean… _you_ were the one who left that note for me?"

"Yes."

For a few long seconds she just stared at me with that searching look. It was as if suddenly our roles were reversed and she was the supposed psychic with the claws that were digging deep inside my brain, pulling out my thoughts and laying them between us.

"I don't believe you."

"You think I'm lying?"

She nodded, turning and stepping towards the door again. Then she reached out for the handle, letting her fingers fall across the brass.

"Don't go in there."

She sighed, getting a little exasperated. "Josiah, honestly. I don't have time—"

"Nancy." I whispered.

She froze immediately, turning to look at me with her wide blue eyes. I could almost see her blood run cold as I reached into my pocket and pulled out her GdiF radio.

"Nancy Drew? You dropped this."

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: EEEEP YES NED IS HERE just because I like to confuse and torture all the characters. *rubs hands together maliciously* mUAHAHA. Oh, but I'm so so so glad that you felt like Nancy's emotions were fitting and logical. Because NANCY/JOE SHIP FOREVER but I respect Ned as a person. :') And asdfghjkl I'm just so happy you liked that chapter and could relate to it! SOPHIA IS A JERK TBH. She annoys me so much. Ugh. :P This chapter is a long one, but I hope you enjoy it! 3 Thank you for reading, as always!_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

 **Nancy**

If I had known what I was getting myself into, I would never have shown up at the Casa dei Giochi that night. In fact, I almost didn't go in the first place, because the note summoning my presence didn't look entirely legitimate. First of all, it was handwritten—which was strange. Secondly, it wasn't signed—so there was no way of knowing whom it was from. It could have very well been a trap. But then, there was that name _Arlecchino_ thrown in there. I was absolutely sure that only members of Sonitrico knew each other's Commedia dell'Arte names. That _was_ a clue…and it implied legitimacy.

"What is it?" Ned asked, looking down into my puzzled face as I folded the note back up.

"I don't know…" I sighed, reaching up to run my fingers through my long hair. "Supposedly I'm needed at the Casa dei Giochi tonight. Supposedly Tazza wants to speak with me."

"What do you mean, supposedly?"

I shrugged one shoulder, ascending the steps to open the front door. "I mean…I'm not sure if this note is legit or not."

Ned raised an eyebrow. "You think it could be a set-up?"

"Possibly…but not likely." I gave him a fraction of a smile, stepping inside the great room and letting the door slip shut after us. "Anyway, I have plenty of time to think about it."

I really didn't want to stay on the subject of the case. It was that morning's turn of events that had sparked the need for something _other_ than the case—that release had come in the form of Ned Nickerson and it was my full intention to drag every boring scrap of small-talk out of the boy.

I looked around the lobby, whispering a silent, "Thank you, Lord," at the sight of Helena's empty desk chair.

"Come on, let's talk in here," I motioned for Ned to follow me, easing open the bedroom door and slipping inside.

"Talk about what?" He smiled. "The case?"

"Anything but that," I exhaled a tired sort of laugh as I sank down onto my bed, crossing my legs and leaning against my knees. "I'm spent when it comes to the case. Besides, I've been missing home like crazy. And you've barely said two words this whole time."

"True, I guess," Ned laughed a little, sticking his hands into his jean pockets. "Home is…pretty boring."

I smiled. "I _like_ boring, though. I _miss_ boring."

"Well, you can come home whenever you feel like it."

"Not…really." I looked down, tracing the pattern of the bedspread with my fingertips. "I need to wrap this case up. I promised Sophia I would. Plus, I'm getting paid."

"Ah." He nodded, leaning one shoulder against the painted wall. "Gotta make some extra cash, huh?"

I smiled again. "Yeah…you could say that."

"Local Starbucks is hiring." Ned shrugged, tossing me a teasing look. "I hear filling orders for frappuccinos is a lot easier than fighting mafia crime rings."

" _Easier,_ maybe. But I like a challenge, remember? And they're not the mafia…I don't even know if the group we're tracking _is_ the crime ring. We have no visible proof. And Nico isn't telling the police much of anything."

"Nico…?"

"Nico Petit," I explained. "He's the phantom who stole…well, presumably he stole lots of things. But he also stole my locket."

"Really? When did he steal it?"

"Um," I bit my lip. "While I was sleeping."

Ned's eyes widened. "What?"

"Uh-huh. Tore it right off my neck."

"You're not serious."

"I am _so_ serious." I couldn't help but smile a little, just because of the total shock on his face.

"Look, Nancy," Ned started off, trying to stay calm. "I know you're really into this, but…it sounds really dangerous. And if you're not careful—"

"But I _am_ careful, Ned." I sighed, looking up at him. "And no matter how many fancy words you use, you're not going to convince me to go back home. It's just not happening."

"Fine. But I'm at least going to stay until the case is over. It's winter break, after all. And I just happened to be one of the twelve students who got picked for this Europe trip thing."

"So _that's_ why you're here," I smiled, leaning back against my hands. "I thought you were just coming to hang out with me."

"Well…yeah. That too."

"Did anyone else come to Venice with you?"

Ned shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah, I've got a couple of friends staying in the city. But I'm planning on spending all my time with you."

I managed a little smile, not knowing how to reply without sounding rude. "Well that's really sweet of you, Ned…but I don't know how much free time I'll have. What with the case, and everything."

"No, no, it's fine," he said, putting up a hand. "I understand—you have a job to do. But when you _do_ have free time…"

"I'd love to hang out with you." I nodded. "Gosh, Ned. You don't know how much I've been wanting to go home. I know it sounds so childish, but…I just miss doing _nothing._ You know?"

"Mm."

I sat Nickerson down in the desk chair and forcing him to tell me everything that had happened while I was away. I relished the dullness of it all, imagining that feeling of falling asleep with open books and the afternoon sunlight on my face.

Eventually our party was crashed by Helena, who was quite surprised to see the tall boy in the varsity tee invading our bedroom. She asked if he was "the boyfriend"—the infamous boyfriend, not anyone's particular boyfriend but simply "the boyfriend" like if he was my boyfriend, her boyfriend, Margherita's boyfriend, everyone's boyfriend.

"No," I laughed in the nicest, most polite way possible while Ned just sat there and blushed.

We waded through the awkwardness like water and eventually the sun started to set. I was absolutely starving, so we decided to walk around Venice until we found some kind of food (preferably pasta.) It was only five thirty, so I had plenty of time to decide about the meeting at Casa dei Giochi.

Dinner was casual, and I was glad of it. My brain was too fried to deal with unwanted implications or, quite frankly, _anything_ beyond shallow, platonic conversation. So we walked back to the Ca as dusk fell. I had grabbed an evening paper from the stand outside the restaurant, but I hadn't glanced at it until we were nearing the entrance of the Ca. And when I did, my heart skipped a beat.

"Oh my gosh…"

"What's wrong?" Ned asked, hearing the shock in my voice. Then he looked down at the paper in my hands. We had both stopped short in the patio of the Ca Nascosta.

 **Nico Petit Escapes Prison!**

Ned took a short step forward to glance over my shoulder at the headline. I caught my lower lip on my teeth.

"Hey, that's the guy you were telling me about…" he murmured, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "How did he escape?"

I was barely listening. Multitasking was not one of my strongholds, and scanning the article as quickly as possible was far more important than listening to Ned's semi-surprised reactions to the turn of events.

 **It is common knowledge that thief Nico Petit, "Il Fantasma," is accustomed to getting himself out of sticky situations, but no one expected him to attempt an escape that would baffle the police and defy the integrity of security systems at Il Epetesta. "I don't know how it happened. No one knows how it happened." Said chief of security, Officer Poritrari. Living up to his name, the phantom has slipped away once again, leaving officials clueless in his wake.**

My shoulders sank with my next exhale as I looked up at Ned. He seemed to lose interest in the article as soon as my own eyes left it.

"How could this have happened?" He asked.

I shook my head slowly, obviously having no satisfactory answer to the inquiry. "Better question, how come Sophia didn't tell me about this earlier?"

Ned, who was proving himself to be quite a pacifist, jumped to her defense. "Maybe she didn't know."

"I'm sure she did," I rolled my eyes and fluffed the newspaper back to its natural quarter-sectioned crease. "No matter how many times she tries to reassure me, I know for a fact that the GdiF learns of these developments much sooner than the general public."

I pounded up the stairs, which were starting to shadow and bend with the fading light. Ned followed me to the landing, where I stopped with my fingers against the doorknob.

"Nancy."

I drew in a deep breath and opened my eyes, freeing my sight of its momentary quarantine from the land of the living. Ned was looking down into my face, his eyebrows gently nudged together in the middle of his forehead.

"What?" I finally asked, feeling a heaviness in my voice that rendered it almost too weak to raise.

"Please don't get upset about this," he said gently, placing one hand on my shoulder. I noticed its warmth through my sweater. "It's not your fault that this phantom guy escaped prison, and it's not your boss' fault, either. So just…don't take it personally. Okay?"

"Okay," I tore my gaze back to the glossy oak door in front of me. "I'll try."

Ned gave me a little half-smile, then dropped his hand from my shoulder. "I better be getting back. The other guys will be wondering where I am. We promised the rest of the football team that we'd do a Skype-in tonight. They just scored a great win for us back home."

I nodded, trying to shake the tension out of my hands and voice. "Oh, cool. I guess I'll see you later, then."

"It was great hanging out, Nancy…" Ned started to descend the stairs, muttering the proper sort of farewell, but I wasn't paying much attention.

I waved politely, opened the front door and let myself inside, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief when the void of human life greeted me. I could still feel the thin, inky paper in my fingertips, and I could still taste the words of that article with my eyes.

Why hadn't Sophia told me? Was I really that unimportant? Was my help no longer needed? Was I slowly and carefully being moved to the dugout to watch from a distance? What _was_ Sophia's problem?

I looked at the newspaper again, and considered calling her. I considered blowing up at her, yelling about the unfairness of it all, and acting like an amateur, juvenile, over-privileged teenager from the lap of lux and the inheritance of a rich lawyer—and wouldn't that be the truth? I was no match for the dogs in the fighting ring. I was going to lose. I was already losing. I had lost. And I couldn't stand that.

I looked at the newspaper again, and I watched my fingers curl around the edges. I watched my knuckles whiten. Then I slipped one hand into the pocket of my sweater and retrieved the note I'd found on the table earlier that afternoon. The one which summoned my presence to the Casa dei Giochi. The one written in the hand I didn't recognize. The hand I didn't trust.

Samantha Quick was never far away. She was just in my wardrobe, in fact. Another world if I ever knew one—hers was the appearance I transformed myself with, hers was the baggage I carried through the streets, and hers was the identity I stole that night for my own satisfaction.

I still didn't know whose handwriting was on that note, but I didn't care. I no longer needed a validation. I was becoming Samantha Quick and going to Campo Santa Margherita and talking to Tazza and playing it cool. Nothing was going to stop me.

The nine o'clock streets were lush—swirled into a watercolor of mostly indigo that felt smooth and smoky between my fingers and hair. The darkness was cold, but my arms were bare. As promised, I'd returned Helena's white cardigan to her drawer that morning and found myself comforted by the chill that rushed around my arms like a lover's wanting grasps. I'd forgotten a coat and I'd forgotten my mask—but I didn't realize that the latter was missing until it was brought to my attention by Josiah Daniau, whom I found standing outside the front door of the Casa dei Giochi.

I didn't expect him to be standing there. In fact, his presence startled me and interrupted the motions I'd already gone through in my mind's eye—the familiar action of knocking on the door, inclining my Samantha Quick face towards the security camera, and hearing the rough Italian accent welcome me inside. None of this happened, because Josiah stopped me.

"You're not going in there," he said.

The borderline command caught me off guard. "Yes, actually…I am," I lessened the distance between me and the door, feeling an uneasiness coming into my fingers. "I was told that Tazza wanted to speak with—"

"I lied."

My hand fell from the door. " _You_ lied?"

Josiah nodded.

"You mean… _you_ were the one who left that note for me?"

"Yes."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. There he was—a peer, a spy, a kid caught up in the high-paying crime industry. I sized his slender, strong body up in one quick glance and decided that he'd majored in deceit. He practically had a master's degree for a professional liar. I wasn't gullible—not as Samantha Quick, and not as myself.

"I don't believe you."

"You think I'm lying?" he sounded surprised.

I nodded, switching my sights from him to the door, and reaching out for the handle.

"Don't go in there," he said again.

I felt a syringe of something cold puncture my pride. "Josiah, honestly. I don't have time—"

"Nancy."

The name, although whispered, caught me off guard. My gaze froze on my hand, which had gone slack on the doorknob. My voice was dead in my throat, so I couldn't speak. All I could do was turn and look at him as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar black shape—my GdiF radio.

"Nancy Drew? You dropped this."

And I knew exactly who he was. I had questions, lots of questions, but none of them rose from the bottom of my lungs. All I could do was stare at the radio in his hand like it was an object poisonous to the touch. He took one step closer.

"If I'm remembering correctly," he began, a smile starting to tease the corners of his mouth, "You never apologized for almost breaking my ribs."

I opened my mouth to reply, but words neglected me like an unwanted child. How could he have been treating this so lightly? Clearly I was an object of amusement to him. I squared my shoulders, shut my mouth, and snatched the radio.

"Who are you?"

Josiah shrugged one shoulder. "I'm not who you think I am. That's all you need to know."

"You're a spy." I said, with a nod to affirm it.

"But not for _them_ ," He jolted one finger in the direction of the building. "I'm working with…"

I waited for the reply, raising one eyebrow and not regretting my air of disbelief.

Josiah lowered his voice even more, taking another step closer. "I'm working with the GdiF. Detective Leporace."

"Show me your proof." I demanded, keeping my voice grounded.

"I…" he sighed, dropping his head and looking down into my eyes. "I don't have any proof."

Both eyebrows went up this time. "Really? Well then, I'm afraid I'm going to have to call you a liar again—"

"Sophia didn't give me any proof."

Something about his words piqued my interest. It wasn't just the context of the phrase or how he'd used her first name—it was the disappointed undertone, the code, the clue that there was something lying just beneath the glossy surface of his voice.

"What do you mean?" I asked, turning the radio over in my hand.

"Look, I can't talk about it here. I only have a few minutes alone with you."

His voice wore a mask of urgency, but his face wore a mask of paper mache, painted black with stripes of white across the eyes. The smile wasn't enough, the sparkle of blue wasn't enough. I wanted to see his face. I wasn't going to believe him until I saw his face.

"What is your name?" I asked.

Josiah shook his head quickly. "I can't talk about it here."

"Tell. Me. Your name." I demanded, barely raising my voice above a whisper.

"Joe." His gaze locked on mine, relaying a look of slight shock at my forwardness. "Joe Hardy."

"And how, Joe Hardy, do you expect me to believe a word you say when I haven't even seen your face?"

There were a few seconds of silence, where the arrogant undertones of my voice settled into the thick air around us. I waited for Joe to reply, recognizing that look of gears turning behind his eyes. I'd only seen him once before, but I'd already learned his body language and I could tell that he was devising a plan.

"You want to see my face?"

I nodded.

"Okay," he said. "But only on one condition."

I scoffed a dry laugh. "Why am I not surprised—?"

"Show me your real hair."

I swallowed. "What?"

"That's not your real hair." Joe told me, apparently quite sure of the fact.

"And how do you know that?"

"Because." A little smirk found its way to his face, and he dared not bite it back.

His eyes found mine and traced down my left cheek, stopping behind my ear, where a small gold hoop was pierced. Something other than my earring was the target of his attention, and almost automatically, he reached up to touch it. His fingers never came in contact with my skin—in fact, they retreated back to his side before they could reach their destination, but I felt the emanating warmth of his hand in the cold night air.

He looked down, snapping out of his slight trance. I noticed the edges of his ears color with a faint blush. "You missed a piece."

My left hand quickly found the lock of titian that had mischievously escaped my blonde wig. I felt my next exhale quaver on the cold.

"Fine," I concurred. "I'll show you my real hair. But only if you show me your face."

"Deal." He smiled a little. "Who's going first?"

"We'll both go. At the same time."

"Why?" he asked, reaching up to untie the black string that secured the mask on his head. "Because you don't trust me?"

"Precisely," I replied coolly, feeling my heartbeat quicken for reasons I couldn't explain. I edged my fingers under the net of the wig.

"Well, like I said before," Joe took one hand to the face of the mask, spanning it with his index finger and thumb. "You should have more faith in me."

And then he slipped his mask off. And I slipped my wig off, feeling my hair tumble down in messy waves. My gaze had never left his face, but now rested on something that seemed entirely new, only by illusion. Against my will, I felt my next exhale rush out in a fevered escape.

The soft light from the entryway swept over his jawbone, casting sculpted shadows across his suntanned skin. He looked like a painting, a sculpture, something in a museum that you weren't allowed to touch. His blue eyes followed my torrents of hair, almost as if he could feel it without touching it. He lost himself in it. And I lost myself in the design of his face—cheekbones, eyelashes, nose, lips.

I snapped out of it, wondering when my breath had become so irregular and how my heartbeat had grown so loud. I looked down, noticing our hands—his holding a mask, mine holding a wig. We had both just stripped away a part of ourselves, revealing a bit more of the truth. It was something that we didn't have to talk about.

"Nancy," Joe finally said, advancing first like an inexperienced soldier. "Please. I need to talk to you somewhere safe. I have information that you need in order to solve this case."

He was speaking as if he knew everything there was to know on this topic—perhaps he did. Perhaps I should have believed him. Perhaps I should have had more faith in him. But I didn't.

"Please," a breed of hopelessness started cross-contaminating his voice. "Please meet me at Campo San Polo tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. Okay?"

I pulled my gaze from his hands to his face—his now open, naked, unashamed face, which intensified the expression of desperation that I'd only ever caught glimpses of through his gemstone eyes.

My voice was still being stubborn, hiding in my lungs. I kicked the sugar from my thoughts and emotions, deeming them childish and stupid and distracting. I couldn't let Joe's good looks get in my way. He was a beast, like any other spy, with fishing line wrapped around his little fingers, reeling in what he wanted and throwing back what he didn't. I knew the game just as well—but I had nets, not hooks and lures and bait. I was smart. Smarter.

I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin, and drew in a deep breath. Joe raised one eyebrow.

"I'll think about it." I said.

"You still don't trust me," he said.

"Correct."

He smiled. A genuine smile, complete with a tired little laugh on the exhale. But he didn't say anything else. I'd given him my final word, and now all he could do was steep in the aftermath of it.

I nodded, he nodded, and we parted ways. I could sense that he was watching me as I walked down the street and turned the corner, but I didn't look back to check. I couldn't.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: EEEEP I'M SO HAPPY YOU LIKED THAT CHAPTER! Haha Joe is fabulous. :') That was my favorite line for sure. I WAS LAUGHING AND SMILING SO HARD READING YOUR COMMENT OMG. 3 I hope you like this installment! *hugs*_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

 **Joe**

I sat on a bench near the fountain in Campo San Polo at nine o'clock and waited for Nancy Drew to show up. She never did. Should I have been surprised? Not really. She hadn't given me much of a reply the night before—just the classic female cop-out, "I'll think about it." Maybe something had come up. Maybe her pet gerbil had died or something.

She was probably just avoiding me. Based on our quick conversation the night before, she wasn't completely sold on my story. She may have taken her wig off, but she didn't let her guard down—at all. I was going to need more than smile stones and flirtatious arrows to break through that wall. My ammunition was good, but not good enough for her.

I'd chosen my words carefully, knowing that I only had a few minutes alone with her before Greco would come out and check on me. Apparently I hadn't convinced her to believe me. She was a detective, for crying out loud. I was on trial in her mind, and she was judging me according to the words I'd chosen the night before. I wished that I could go back and change what I'd said. Because I always managed to say the wrong thing, somehow.

I didn't wait around for long at Campo San Polo. I'd already learned that Nancy Drew showed up on time for things when they were important to her—and apparently I wasn't important to her. It hurt, but I lived. I picked myself up off the bench and left.

Giving up was not part of my protocol—for anything. I was going to figure out another way to see her. I'd already managed the task once, and I liked to think that the previous night had helped me to claw my way out of square one. I was climbing and getting higher, but not high enough. She was at the top of the mountain and I was barely off the ground.

I didn't know what to do, so I walked to some fancy little candy store and bought her a box of chocolates. It was option one, and it was the best thing I could think of without the sagacious advice of Frank. It was a tiny box of some ridiculously expensive Italian truffle things, to which I attached a handwritten note.

 _Nancy,_

 _I read somewhere that the best way to get a girl's attention is to give her chocolate. Let's see if it works. Please meet me at Campo San Polo at one o'clock. Please._

 _-JH_

Like the completely discreet spy that I was, I snuck through the entrance of the Ca Nascosta and placed the box on the table next to the morning paper. I couldn't help but notice the headline, which read in all caps: **THE PHANTOM ESCAPES!** I rolled my eyes, remembering how I was the first to learn of this development—the first to tell Sophia, who had acted like the information meant nothing to her and hung up without so much as a simple thank you. I shrugged it off, trying to not take anything personally.

Going back to Campo San Polo was like going back to bed. It felt worthless, useless, and cowardly. But I didn't know what else to do. If the chocolates didn't work, I was going to need a better plan. Problem was, I didn't have one. So I just sat on the edge of the fountain and fed the pigeons until one thirty rolled around.

She must have seen the chocolates by then. She must have just decided to deject me. Again. Man, I thought that idea was fool-proof. The lady who took my money at the confectioners store said so. I did what my mother always told me to do and asked a woman for advice on melting a girl's icy heart. Maybe it didn't work the same way in the crime-fighting business.

I was running out of options. Without a brother to beg for help, I was stuck. Yeah, Frank was kind of clueless around girls, but Nancy Drew didn't seem like your average girl. She was hard to get—not in the ordinary, teasing way, though. I knew she was going to be a challenge. A target way out of my shooting range.

I may have been lousy at inventing pick-up lines, but I wouldn't let myself give up. So I wrote her another note, on a small square of lined notepaper. I printed it in my best handwriting and signed it cryptically with my initials and left it on the table where the chocolates had been whisked away by the ungrateful fairy herself. If this note didn't make her show up, I had no idea what would.

 _Nancy,_

 _I read somewhere that the best way to get a girl's attention is to threaten her. So meet me at Campo San Polo at five o'clock. OR ELSE._

 _-JH_

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _EEEP YES the chemistry is so real I could cry. :'') I KNOW RIGHT I wish I could rewrite those crossover books, too! They would have been so much better with Nancy/Joe themes instead of Nancy/Frank. UGH. I'm so glad you liked how that whole thing escalated in the previous chapter. ;) And that you liked the description of Joe wanting to touch Nancy's hair. 3333 Enjoy this installment! I'll update soon because this chapter is so tiny lol._

 _Is your heart in the game: YOUR REVIEW MADE ME SO HAPPY OMGGG. Thank you so much for reading! Seriously I screenshot your review so that I can go back and read it whenever I'm feeling down about my writing because asdfghjkl it made me cry happy tears. 333 Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter! *flails and gives you waffles*_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

 **Nancy**

Where did my allegiance lie? I didn't know. On one hand, there were all my commitments to the GdiF, my father, and my friends back home. There was the money I was getting paid and the credentials I was adding to my career as an amateur sleuth. But then there was the other hand. That other hand didn't belong—it was hiding under the table, holding an advantageous fan of cards. It taunted me, dared me, tempted me.

 _No,_ I told myself that morning as I towel-dried my hair. _You will not give in so quickly. This Joe Hardy character is probably an imposter – a set-up, devised by the crime ring to catch me in the act of deception._

I had to watch my step. Stealing an identity was serious business—and it was something I did _not_ want to get in trouble for. Especially since my backup from the GdiF was starting to crumble beneath me like unstable ground. I couldn't risk losing what little grip I had left on this case.

Before I'd finished dressing that morning, I decided that I wouldn't go to Campo San Polo to see Joe Hardy. If he was legit, then he would have given me some kind of proof. Yes, he'd seen me on the rooftop during the stakeout, but supposedly members of the _crime ring_ were at the Palazzo Orpello that night—he could very well have been one of them. If he was legit, he would have at least shown me some form of identification. I just couldn't trust him without proof—be that tangible or intuitive.

I'd already made up my mind, but the parcel left on the table in the front patio caught my attention. It was a box of chocolates that I was suspecting to be addressed to Il Dottore. However, upon closer examination, I discovered that they were addressed to me. And there was a very peculiar note attached. I didn't even need the initials to tell me whom it was from.

 _Nancy,_

 _I read somewhere that the best way to get a girl's attention is to give her chocolate. Let's see if it works. Please meet me at Campo San Polo at one o'clock. Please._

 _-JH_

"Honestly?" I whispered, shaking my head slowly and trying to scold the amused smile that played at my lips. "You're something else, Mister JH."

Nothing would persuade me—not words, not bribes, and certainly not chocolates. So I ignored the would-be appointment with Joe Hardy and instead became Samantha Quick.

She went out for coffee and heavenly Italian pastries before making her way to Campo Santa Margherita. And she was feeling rather extravagant that morning, so she paid Raimondo to sing to her on the gondola ride to Casa dei Giochi. The camera at the door spun around to face her, catching its own reflection in the glossy bend of her sunglass lenses. She was me and I was her. It felt strangely liberating to become a new person so often—to be let beyond doors that only admitted my transformed likeness.

"Looking good, Signora Quick," I sighed as I replaced my shades with the white half-mask and wove my way through the card tables standing vacant in the hazy, vintage light.

"Ah, Samantha," Enrico Tazza greeted me as I sat down across from him. "How may I be of service to you?"

"Well, I was anticipating the exact opposite," I folded my gloved hands on the edge of the card table. "That is, I was hoping I might be of service to _you._ "

It took a moment for him to grasp the meaning of my proposal. He fidgeted with an orderly deck of Scopa cards while he pondered the idea.

"You are speaking of the interview with Josiah Daniau."

I nodded. "I slipped away the night of the meeting so as to avoid raising suspicion. And I assumed that you'd wish to discuss things alone, and not in the presence of Signore Daniau."

"You assumed correctly," Tazza gave a low laugh, sitting back in his chair. "And as it happens, Josiah has the day off. You couldn't have chosen a better time to come here."

 _I can't imagine why he'd have the day off._ I nudged the evident smile off my face and nodded professionally. "What luck," I said.

"Shall we discuss the interview over a game of Scopa?" Tazza was already shuffling the cards for a game. I could tell just by his body language that accepting the proposition would spin the odds in my favor.

"Of course."

He dealt out three cards for each side of the table, then laid four more face up on the playing surface. King, five, valet, two. Nothing particularly good. I motioned for him to take the first trick. He snapped up the valet with its twin of clubs.

"So," he began, glancing up from the two remaining cards in his large hands. "Tell me what you have learned."

"Well…" I had the seven of coins. It was a small victory worth grinning over, despite the circumstances. I paired it with the two and the five, leaving the king looking royally unprotected in the middle of the table. "I've learned that Josiah is very good at concealment."

"Is that so?" he grunted, seeming unconvinced. "He didn't provide any information whatsoever, then?"

I shook my head. "No, he provided _some_ …"

Tazza waited. He couldn't take the king, so instead he threw down the four of swords, which had been hiding in his palm. Three more cards were tossed down between each of us.

I debated for a moment how I could deliver a viable string of deceit to the middleman sitting before me. Clearly I couldn't tell him all that I had learned about Josiah, but I could tell him of the implications gleaned from the interview—avoiding, of course, any mention of my locket. I disclosed to him information of which I was quite certain he was already fully aware—where Josiah was from, that he had a brother (whose name was confidential,) and that he often practiced the underappreciated art of trickery and sleight of hand. (I mentioned this point with the highest level of discretion, brushing aside the idea of suspicion with a laugh and an anecdote of a rather impressive card trick, to which Tazza replied with an uninterested grunt of disapproval.)

"Under what influence was Josiah hired? If you don't mind my asking." I said, as the round of Scopa finished and Tazza counted our points.

"Like any other business or trade, Singora," he began, jotting down the scores on an unlined notepad. "We take it upon ourselves to fill empty positions as soon as we have the means to do so. You must understand. Did Gina not mention this in her correspondence with you?"

I nodded quickly, remembering the letter and the implications of Josiah Daniau filling the phantom's empty place. I wondered for the second time whether or not it could be true. I wondered if it was all a ploy.

"Well, then," Tazza dealt us both a fresh hand of cards. "The letter you received from Gina will explain all that you need to know about Josiah—"

"But it didn't, you see…" I bit my lip.

Tazza glanced up from the cards in his hands. I could almost imagine that an eyebrow was raising behind that shimmer of green paper mache. "How do you mean?"

I didn't know how I ought to reply at first. I wanted to appear discreet, but not lacking in clarity. I would kick myself for walking away without the information my conscience demanded. Shying away would be cowardly and a waste of time, but charging into the fray was something that I'd recently proven to be not so good at. Maybe it was stupid, to feel outmatched by this so-called private investigator, Joe Hardy, but I did all the same.

Competition had always been disagreeable to me, but when it presented itself with no viable escape option at hand, I would gladly woman up and face it with a loaded pistol. This wasn't child's play, this was a duel. Someone's pride was going to be shot down in cold blood, and it wasn't going to be mine. It was going to be Joe Hardy's.

"I'm just really curious," I began, discarding my seven of swords. "Does he come recommended by someone?"

Tazza seemed surprised by my inquest, but answered it nonetheless—not before snapping up my seven with its twin of coins, which I lamented losing in the back of my mind. "He does, in fact. But you will understand my not disclosing any names."

"Of course," I nodded once, giving up my last card. "I guess my real question is this—why is it that Gina referred to Josiah's position being unofficial? She said that _you_ decided to take him on. It just…surprised me."

Tazza grunted, sounding almost disgusted. "She uses this word because it is not _my_ job to secure replacements for empty positions. But the fact we face is this, Signora—the positions are still empty. Who is to fill them? Il Dottore, they tell me." He rolled his dark eyes. "How we can depend on this when Il Dottore never shows his face?"

I felt both my eyebrows raise. As inconvenient and uncomfortable as it was to wear a mask, I was grateful for the momentary concealment of my surprised expression. Probing further on the topic of Il Dottore was a dangerous move—but it was one that needed to be made.

"And who _is_ Il Dottore, exactly? I've heard the character mentioned, but as to whose face is behind the mask, I'm afraid I haven't been informed." I sugar-coated the question with a dark blend of turbinado.

"That would make two of us, Signora," Tazza muttered. "No one knows who Il Dottore is. But I am told that he is in charge of everything and everyone within Sonitrico. I am told not to overstep the mark."

I nodded, once. There was a five in my hand and four and a one on the table. I took the trick and set it aside. "You seem like you've been in your trade for a while, and know it well."

Tazza grunted again, seeming almost incredulous.

"Well, wouldn't you agree?"

His gaze shot back to mine. "Of course I would—"

"As would I. So why shouldn't you be the one to make decisions like this? Why shouldn't you be the one to determine who fills empty positions within Sonitrico?" I gave a shallow shrug, watching the expression in his narrow eyes. "If I had any intelligence on the subject, I would condone your efforts. I certainly would _not_ consider them to be 'overstepping the mark.'"

Tazza listened to my words and let them fester in the thick, smoky air around us for a moment. He glanced down at the cards in his hands. He swiped the king of cups off the table and added the match to his stack. I considered letting him take the silence, but decided that it wasn't safe in his hands.

"As one rule-bender to another," I began, leaning forward with my elbows on the edge of the card table. "What is _your_ opinion of Josiah Daniau?"

The look in his eyes spoke momentary shock. " _My_ opinion?"

I nodded.

"My opinion is not—"

"Your opinion is invaluable," I said, sitting back in the armchair. "At least to me."

I gave him everything I had. Whether it would work or not, none but the silence could verify. I waited and looked across the table at him, pointedly ignoring the fact that I had one card left in my hand and it was my turn.

"My opinion," Tazza said, bringing his voice down to an almost-whisper. "Is that Josiah has the potential of being all that we require of him. If Gina has not altered her word on the subject, you are aware that Josiah has been chosen, among others, to wear the mask of Brighella. Is he ready for the job? I am not sure. But _you_ are."

I swallowed, my throat feeling tender. "Me?"

"Yes," Enrico almost laughed the reiteration. "You."

"I…don't understand—"

"I'm sure you must, Samantha," he said. "You are among the others that I speak of. You have proven yourself worthy once before. Now Josiah must prove himself."

"So…he hasn't already proven himself?"

Tazza shook his head slowly. "No."

This confirmation eased something in my conscience. If proving myself meant stealing the sapphire from Zattare, then Josiah hadn't proved himself by being of any great use to them. This piqued my interest. Tazza and every other member of Sonitrico knew next to nothing about this spy kid from the US of A. Could it be that he was lying to them, but telling _me_ the truth?

I'd been hoping to glean more from this meeting with Tazza, but my expectations far surpassed my reality. It didn't matter all that much, though; I'd learned enough. I'd learned that Josiah Daniau was a mystery to everyone. I'd learned that he and Samantha Quick had a lot in common—they were both liars, cheaters, stealers, and not well known by anyone of their acquaintance. But could it be that Joe Hardy and I had a set of our own similarities on the opposite end of the spectrum? I had to find out. And there was only one way to do that.

Relinquishing the long pause in our conversation with a polite laugh, I glanced back up to Tazza and replied with something passive and uninterested enough to appear born from a world far detached from the present topic.

"Well, who knows what the future may bring?" I smiled and took up the remaining cards on the table with the last one in my hand. "Scopa."

* * *

 _Guest:_ _Thank you so much for the review! I'm so glad you liked that chapter! :D Gotta love Joe and his threatening notes.. haha. I hope you like this installment!_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

 **Nancy**

When I returned to the Ca after my rather refreshingly chilly walk back from Casa dei Giochi, I found another note addressed to me, sitting innocently on the patio table. Both the torn notepaper and the handwriting were recognizable, implying that it was from Joe Hardy, whom I'd stood up earlier that day.

 _Nancy,_

 _I read somewhere that the best way to get a girl's attention is to threaten her. So meet me at Campo San Polo at five o'clock. OR ELSE._

 _-JH_

The smile was inevitable; it beat me into submission. I just couldn't help it. I mean, what private investigator attempting professionalism did things like this? Maybe he wasn't attempting professionalism. Maybe I'd been mistaken about him. But being mistaken was starting to become an old, dirty, annoying habit that I was ready to kick from my repertoire. His threat note wasn't what persuaded me to finally go to Campo San Polo and meet him—it was mine and Tazza's conversation that did—but I would be lying if I said that his note didn't intrigue me even more.

Checking my watch and finding that I had ten minutes before the church bells rang for three o'clock, I hurriedly dressed into some casual clothes, keeping the sunglasses only for aesthetics. There was something slightly intimidating about not being able to see someone's eyes when they could see yours. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to torture him just a little bit.

When I arrived at Campo San Polo, I saw Joe Hardy immediately—he was sitting on the edge of the fountain, looking at a flock of pigeons that were aimlessly mulling about the cobblestone. I approached him from behind, making no noise with my penny loafers. I stopped at the other side of the fountain and examined the back of his head. Messy blonde. And then I opened my mouth and put to death my concealment.

"Or else what?"

He twisted around to face me, looking surprised. His blue eyes were wide and almost disbelieving. His mouth made a motion to say my name, but no sound came out. Then he smiled.

"You came," he said, his brow lowering slightly.

"Of course I came."

He laughed, sticking his thumbs into the pockets of his slim-cut jeans. "I knew that threat note would work."

"Really?" I stepped around the fountain, meeting him on the other side. "Then why did you even bother with the chocolates?"

Joe shrugged, smiling that infectious smile that he apparently had no control over. "Because."

"They didn't work," I told him, matter-of-factly.

"Ah, but the threat note _did,_ "

"No, actually, it didn't."

He raised an eyebrow—just one.

"Anyway," I started off, "Let's discuss business."

"Nope," Joe sighed, returning to his seat on the edge of the fountain.

I looked down at him, feeling my brow raise. "Nope? What does that mean?"

"It means," He turned to look up at me, squinting slightly in the bright sunlight. "I'm not going to discuss anything with you until you take those sunglasses off."

"What?" I reached up to touch the black frames. "Why?"

"Because. _Sophia_ always wears sunglasses and it annoys the crap out of me."

I folded my arms over my chest, finding it a little surprising to hear Detective Leporace's first name thrown out there so suddenly and casually. I squared my shoulders and delivered the best comeback I could think of at the moment.

"Samantha Quick always wears sunglasses. Does that annoy you, too?"

He smiled a little, looking down at the ground. It wasn't the same kind of smile as before—this one suppressed slight annoyance, but was still noticeably paired with a blush. He rose to his feet and took two steps closer to me. The distance was hardly there at all. I could smell spearmint again, blended with something like spicy cologne.

"But you're not Samantha Quick," Joe said softly, reaching up with both hands and slipping the sunglasses off my face. "You're Nancy Drew."

Again, his skin never made contact with mine—but I could feel the warmth of it, just a breath away. The shades were folded up in his hands and I was looking into his eyes with my own wide, naked ones. The smile was back to being one of his classics—a mixture of amusement and something deep that I couldn't understand.

" _Now_ we can talk about business."

I cleared my throat, dropping my gaze to the cobblestone as he took a step back. "Good."

However much I would have liked to deny it, Joe's presence brought something that intimidated me. I wasn't afraid of him in any sense of the word, but I felt unequal to him. It was strange. There was never a moment when I faltered in my step of self-confidence. But I'd never encountered someone like Joe Hardy before.

I watched as he flicked my Samantha Quick shades around in his hand, waiting for the first note of interrogation to pass from my lips. He may have been secretive and cryptic, but he was no introvert. He was on the opposite end of the spectrum, daring me to step out on unstable ground. But just because I was more reserved by nature didn't mean that I wasn't brave. I _was_ brave. Braver.

"Well?" he asked, trying to work the impatience out of his voice. "What do you want to talk about? Business…wise?"

"I want to talk about _you_ ," I straightened up, trying to pose my way to higher ground with square shoulders and a lifted chin. "Your family, for instance. Where you come from."

"Okay," he sighed the word, giving me a scrutinizing look. "I'm from Bayport, New York."

"Your father's name?"

"Fenton Hardy."

"Your mother's name."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Is this really necessary?"

"Yes." I crossed my arms.

"Fine," He gave a clueless shrug. "Laura."

"And your brother's name?"

He couldn't help but have a little fun with this one, apparently. I instantly recollected the night of our first meeting, and how I'd asked him the very same question.

"It's confidential."

"Do you think this is a joke?" I lowered my brow, finding it easy to be serious, but finding it difficult to quarantine myself from his contagious smile.

"No—"

"Because I will literally turn around and walk away right now if you don't answer my questions."

Apparently it was a decent threat. Apparently he'd wanted to speak with me so badly, he was willing to put aside his child's play to carry on a serious conversation.

"Frank," he said.

"There. That wasn't so bad."

He gave me a look—one that recognized the high concentration of sass in my voice. Was he intimidated? No. He was just trying to figure me out. I could see the gears spinning frantically behind his pretty blue eyes.

"Now. Tell me why Detective Leporace hired you."

"Because." Joe took a deep breath, casting our surroundings a quick glance and lowering his voice just slightly. "I work for an undercover crime-fighting organization called ATAC. Sophia contacted them in representation of the GdiF—or so she said—and briefed them about what's going on over here. She said that they needed additional help, and they were willing to pay for the best."

Though I was taking in the entire explanation with an attentive ear and raised eyebrows, those last two words distracted me.

"The best?" I reiterated, hoping for a humbler form of clarification.

He just smiled. "The best of the best."

"Well, I can see they didn't pay extra for modesty."

He shrugged. "It was out of stock."

I ignored his arrogance, deciding that it was very unprofessional of him. "Tell me more about ATAC."

He blew out a sigh. "There really isn't much to tell."

"What does the acronym stand for?"

"American Teens Against Crime."

I shrugged one shoulder. "Sounds cliché."

"It's not, though." Joe said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "It's awesome."

I nodded slowly, considering the idea behind this kind of an undercover organization. "American _teens_ , you said? Do they kick you out when you turn twenty?"

Joe shrugged.

"You don't know?"

"Look, the thing was started by my _father._ I doubt they'd kick me out, no matter how old I am."

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued by this bit of unwarranted information. "And how old _are_ you?"

Joe glanced up from the cobblestone, getting that look in his eye that I was beginning to recognize—the one that preluded a joke or a cocky reply.

"Guess," he said.

I rolled my eyes. "Just tell me."

"Fine, Miss Killjoy." He scoffed. "Two months shy of nineteen."

"Really?"

"Yeah…why?" Joe smirked, setting the sunglasses down on the stone beside him. "Do I look older?"

"No, on the contrary." I folded my arms over my chest. "I'm just… I'm eighteen, as well."

He exhaled a smile. "I know."

"You know?"

"Yep." He nodded, looking far too amused for his own good. "I already Googled you and everything. It's a fabulous way to dig up dirt on someone—you should try it. Ditch all this Spanish Inquisition stuff. It's so primitive, don't you think?"

I rolled my eyes, blushing a little for reasons I didn't comprehend. "I like primitive. It reminds me of how I'm being more mature than you. I also like privacy."

Joe laughed. "I'm a spy, Nance. I don't believe in privacy."

His rather bold claim should have been what snagged my attention, but it wasn't. Instead it was that nickname—Nance—that caught on my mind and stuck there like a piece of torn fabric. What made him think that we were on nickname terms? I almost called him out about it, but something in me stopped the childish retaliation. Because I liked the way it sounded on his lips. _Nance._

"Anyway, my question is this," I began, turning to face him. "If the GdiF hired you, then how come Sophia never mentioned you to me? Does she know that you're going under the alias of Josiah Daniau?"

He nodded.

I felt a twinge of something startling in my chest. A swallow slipped down my throat.

"Why?"

"It's just strange," I muttered, reaching up to run a hand through my long hair. "Because I told Sophia about the interview with you the other night. And I told her that your name was Josiah Daniau. And she said that she'd never heard of you."

Joe was silent for a moment. "She's lying."

"Well of course," I pressed two fingertips against my forehead. "But why? I don't understand it."

Again, there was a few second's pause. Joe spoke up after a minute, not offering a direct response, but adding something else to the whirlpool of my thoughts.

"She never introduced me to any other agents. That's why I ran into you on the rooftop, the night of the stakeout—because she didn't give me a radio. I was only allowed communication with _her,_ and she told me to relay every new lead to her. I confronted her about that yesterday."

"Really?" I asked. "And what did she say?"

"She blew it off," Joe replied. "Told me that it wasn't my place to question her."

"She told me the exact same thing, when I asked her why she didn't tell me about Nico talking to the police. I had to read about it in the newspaper." I rolled my eyes. "How lame, right?"

"Yeah. And did you read about how he escaped?"

I nodded. "Don't tell me she knew about it before _they_ did."

"If by 'they,' you mean the press, then yes—she did." Joe exhaled a dry laugh. "I learned about it first, from Tazza on the night of the interview. I told her that same hour."

My lungs caved a disgusted sigh. "Unbelievable."

"What did you do to make her lose trust in you?" Joe asked, giving me that same scrutinizing look.

"No idea. As far as I'm aware, I did nothing. I mean, I did everything she wanted me to do. I tried _so_ hard." I sighed, reaching up to press my fingertips to my forehead. "Something's just weird about her. I don't understand it."

There was a pause, filled only by the distant sounds of cars and pigeons and street noise. Joe spoke after a moment.

"When I told Sophia about the interview, she freaked out. The first thing she wanted to know was whether or not I saw Samantha Quick. I said that I did, but we all had to wear masks, and she looked relieved. She even slipped up and said, 'good.'" Joe laughed dryly, shaking his head. "And then when I told her about running into you at the stakeout, she didn't want to know if I would recognize _you_ if I saw you again…she wanted to know if _you_ would recognize _me._ "

I felt these words filter through my thoughts and find their places amongst all the confusion. This case was like a fog, and it just kept getting thicker and thicker. But one thing was as clear as a beacon of light through the mess.

"She's trying to hide you," I said, turning to Joe, whose eyes met mine with equal understanding. "She's trying to make sure I don't find out about you. She's trying to make sure _nobody_ finds out about you."

"Well," Joe laughed softly. "It's too late for that, isn't it?"

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _Hehe yes, Josiah is very similar to Joseph. Finally Nancy knows who Joe really is. ;) EEEP I HOPE YOU LIKED THIS CHAPTER. Thank you for reading and reviewing always!_


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

 **Joe**

She told me to meet her at nine o'clock, but I was up before the dawn. There was just too much to think about, and sleep was secondary on my list of priorities. Sure, I wallowed in the intoxicating goodness of unconsciousness when I was at home, but missions were a whole different story.

Home was sleeping late and Aunt Trudy making waffles and Frank bossing me around and me procrastinating on homework because I'd rather be practicing kickboxing in the basement or running down the beach in the full sun. It felt like another world, being overseas on a case. And everything was different. I got up early and slept on the floor and lived out of a backpack and suffered through cold showers and survived off of caffeinated soda that Mom would've yelled at me for drinking.

Nancy told me to meet her at nine o'clock, at the Ca Nascosta. She asked me if I knew where it was. I told her that I knew everything about her, did she even need to ask? She rolled her eyes (something that she apparently loved to do) and told me that I wasn't as psychic as I thought. What that meant, I had no idea. Maybe she was planning some kind of a practical joke, to catch me in the act of lying? It was unlikely. Having only seen her twice before, I didn't know her that well—but I could not imagine her touching a joke with a ten foot pole.

Nine o'clock was a long way away, so I killed some time playing with earplug bullets in the middle of my dirty rented office room. I felt like a twelve year old, but that sensation was nothing new. The gun I had to play with was a toy from ATAC. It wouldn't actually shoot anything (due to grumpy people in an airport who wouldn't appreciate this technological asset) but it could take bullets like any other normal revolver and it was great for practicing loading—something that is surprisingly hard to do quickly in a tight situation.

During ATAC initiation, we used to target practice with earplug bullets—they were cheaper, safer, and more reusable than wax ones. They were also super discreet. If someone asked about all the little foam earplugs, I could totally get away with telling them that I had trouble sleeping. Insomnia couldn't explain the case of bullet cartridges and primers, but heck—I was a secret agent and nobody would be digging through my backpack anyway.

Capsules of flashbang powder always found their way into my target practice stuff. It was residue from training. I'd always sneak a capsule of the stuff into the cartridges, just to tick off my instructors and look more John Wayne than everybody else. The powder caused a burst of smoke to fire from the chamber with the earplug and imitate a real bullet round. Needless to say, my target room nickname quickly became Flashbang. I didn't mind.

After filling a dozen cartridges with earplugs and primers, I timed myself loading them over and over again until it got old and frustrating. I couldn't get past eight rounds in four seconds. I guess it was okay, according to most people's standards. If I was a normal person, I would have whined that I could do better with a speed loader, but they didn't work on earplug bullets.

It was eight forty-two. Close enough to nine, I decided. So I shoved my pretend gun back into my bag and zipped the leftover "bullets" into the inner pocket of my jacket. Then I grabbed my sunglasses on my way out the door. After our little conversation about not wearing shades, I couldn't resist the urge to cause some trouble.

Nancy was a bit of a snob about punctuality, so I was surprised to find the front patio of the Ca empty and void of life beyond the first coat of sunshine painted across the wall and down the staircase. Feeling too awkward to just walk in, I did the polite thing and knocked on the big wooden door. No reply. I tried the handle. Locked.

 _Come on, this is like a freaking hotel for crying out loud…_

I knocked again, this time someone responded in a rush, as if trying to open up before my next knock sounded. Ah, too late. There she was—a tallish woman with red lips and high cheekbones. The blonde hair threw me off, but the German accent that followed the pleasantly-surprised gasp put everything back in its proper place.

"Oh! Hello," She smiled shyly as her eyes gave me a once-over—stopping at my dusty Converse and snapping back up to my shades. "I must have forgotten to unlock za door zis morning."

For a second I blanked. I had literally nothing. So I just looked at her, hoping that the need for a cover wasn't written in red Sharpie all over my face, when I suddenly noticed a movement over her shoulder. It was an inner apartment door opening—releasing from its jaws none other than Nancy Drew.

"Wait a second…" I reached up to swipe off my sunglasses, letting my fake play-up voice flow out—smooth as silk. "Helena Berg, right? I _thought_ I recognized you!"

She was confused, but her brain automatically tried to file my face in her long-term memory. Ah, psychology. It was a beautiful thing to watch. What wasn't beautiful, though, was Nancy's expression from across the room. She had closed the door behind her and was now standing with her arms crossed, staring at me with this unforgivable look of disgust.

"I'm…afraid I cannot recall your name…" Helena muttered, like she was still racking her brain for the answer before I could say it.

"Joseph. Parker." I shook her hand for distraction, noticing that she was wearing a fancy little watch. It would've been cake to steal, but I was trying my best to be polite. "You probably don't remember me. It was late, and there were a lot of people there…"

Nancy was rolling her eyes, shaking her head, and distracting me. But I didn't care. In fact, I was embellishing this story especially for her enjoyment.

"Ah, I see." Helena smiled, but she seemed just a little weirded out by me.

"So how's the journalism gig working out for you?" I assumed a relaxed power pose, with my thumbs in the pockets of my denim jacket.

She raised her eyebrows, seeming surprised. Nancy did, too. I caught her stare of shock and disbelief with a quick glance past Helena's blonde head.

"It is verking very good, actually," she said. "I'm surprised you remember. I applied for zis position quite vhile ago."

I shrugged, playing it cool kid and slipping my shades back on my face. "I have kind of a…whatchamacallit. Photographic memory." I snapped my fingers when the word came to me, then nodded so she wouldn't question any part of it.

Helena nodded back, proving herself a psychologist's dream guinea pig. Meanwhile, Nancy tried to stop a sarcastic laugh with her fist, obviously impressed by my conversation abilities. She stepped forward, clearing her throat to interrupt mine and Helena's hit-off.

"Mr. Parker," She smiled sweetly with the words, coming into the sunlight that was pouring through the doorway. "You shouldn't have troubled yourself with coming all the way here. We should have _met somewhere else._ "

The emphasis on those last three words was so indiscreet, but I had to hand it to her for thinking quickly and disguising our connection.

"If you'll excuse me," Helena interrupted, forcing a smile. "I have an errand to run."

I gladly traded places with her—slipping inside and letting the big wooden door sink shut behind me. I exhaled a sigh of relief, bringing my gaze up to Nancy's, whose was stuck in an eye-roll and fixed on the door frame over my head.

"You should have warned me about the roommate."

Nancy scoffed. "Oh, so this is _my_ fault, is it?" Then she shook off the irritation, seeming to realize how childish she sounded. "And if I can't wear sunglasses, then neither can you." And with one quick motion, the shades were ripped off my face and folded up in her hands.

I laughed, satisfied by the annoyance in her tone. Something about it was just too funny. "Why do you not like me? Do you envy my social skills?"

"Your deception skills," she corrected.

"Deception is a necessary tool."

"Touché," she conceded, though her next irritated inhale was enough to say just the opposite. "How did you know she was a journalist? And don't you dare say that you 'just guessed.'"

I attempted to bite back a laugh, making her wait for the reply. "I didn't 'just guess.' I Googled her—just like I Googled you—and dug up all the necessary dirt. You should seriously try it sometime. Super helpful."

Nancy gave me an unamused look. " _Necessary_ dirt?"

"It's ammunition," I said. "Ammunition is necessary."

"Whatever." She changed the topic, turning and taking a few steps across the great room. "If we're going to work together on this case, then you're going to have to learn a valuable lesson in team play."

"Team play?" I reiterated, stopping in the middle of the marble floor to look at her. "Excuse me, Miss Solo-Flyer, I know far more about team play than you do."

She spun around, eyebrows sufficiently raised. "Really."

I nodded.

"And why is that?"

"Because." I shrugged one shoulder. "You're an only child."

She scoffed, obviously annoyed with my blurting out the fact. "Would you just _stop_ reading about me online? It's getting really disturbing."

"Nope. Not until you give me my shades back."

She rolled her eyes and threw the sunglasses at me.

I could have then launched into a speech about how she was probably never taught the valuable lesson of playing nice, or sharing, or losing gracefully—but I didn't. Because she was wearing her real, beautiful auburn hair down and it was all flowy and wavy and now my sunglasses smelled like whatever vanilla coconut scent her hands were bathed in. It was enough to make me act like a grown up. For a few minutes.

"So," I blew out a sigh, knowing that there was no hope in winning the argument. "Where are we going to start? Do you have any new leads?"

"I might," Nancy reached up to run a hand through her hair. "I thought I saw something up on the altana. I couldn't check it out yesterday, so I think we should go up there and hope that Margherita's gone at the moment."

"Margaritas? Where? Can I have one?"

She predictably rolled her eyes at this comment. "Margherita _Faubourg_ is the woman who owns this Ca. Although she does nothing all day apart from sunbathing and giving me disapproving looks."

"Ah." I nodded, casting the renovation eye-sore a second glance. "No wonder the place is such a wreck."

"And even if there _were_ margaritas," Nancy said over her shoulder as she headed for the stairs. "You're underage for such things."

I laughed. Sarcastic. "I love how you say that like you're _not_ underage for 'such things.'"

She wasn't listening. In fact, she'd already disappeared through a doorway and was eaten up by bright sunlight and a fresh gust of wind from the altana. I followed, noticing a small desk beside the doorway, where notebooks full of German writing had been left open.

"Thank goodness," Nancy breathed a sigh of relief—either by this Margherita character not being there, or at the Scopa card laying on the table, which was instantly swiped up into her hand. "I was nearly losing sleep over this."

"What is it?" I asked, taking a step closer to examine the card myself.

Nancy was about to reply, but then she flipped the Scopa card over to the front side and stopped. On this side there was a line of writing in thin blue ink, across the top edge. I had to squint to read what it said.

 _To keep things Safe, remember the Code. What you already know, but Backwards._

"Why are some words incorrectly capitalized?

Nancy scanned the line of text one more time before replying to my question. "I think it has something to do with the 'safe and secure store.' It would make perfect sense!" She turned to face me, an excited realization lighting up in her blue eyes. "They must've changed the password to the lock on the store room. That's why the first one didn't work!"

"Okay…you lost me at 'safe and secure—'"

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Nancy blew me off with a wave of her hand and pocketed the card. "We have to get to Campo Santa Maria Formosa."

I raised one eyebrow. "And that is…?"

"The costume shop."

"Okay." I nodded slowly, hoping that the sarcasm came through. "That makes perfect sense."

Nancy rolled her eyes. Again. "I'll explain it on the way there."

But she didn't have to, really. She didn't have to explain anything. Ever. Suddenly nothing mattered. Because she grabbed my forearm and gently pulled me after her in the direction of the stairs. Her hand was only there for a split second, but the aftereffect was intoxicating. It was a warmth that melted through my skin and stayed. I acted like it was no big deal and followed her outside.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: EEEP YOUR REVIEWS ALWAYS MAKE MY DAY. :') Seriously omg the fact that you look so forward to my updates...and use them as a reward! HAHA YOU'RE THE BEST 3 Also I'm glad my characters are ruining your ways! LOL that happens to me too when I'm writing. xD "Boys and their egos" HAAHAHA YES YOU CAN SAY THAT AGAIN. I'm so glad you like this story omg *is smiling so hard rn* Enjoy this chapter! And keep sleuthing! hehe. _


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

 **Nancy**

"Okay, so this was sort of starting to make sense to me—the safe and secure store, the crime ring's hiding place for stolen goods, the secrecy of the whole plan…until you opened up some Hobbit door in a fountain and crawled inside."

I rolled my eyes at the sound of utter confusion in Joe's voice, which echoed in the tunnel around us. Paying attention to his words was one my last priorities at the moment. I'd just finished filling the last well and crossed the bridge, noticing the landmark which indicated our destination. But then I turned the corner, a realization hit me like cold water.

"Darn it," I groaned, pressing my fingertips to my forehead.

Joe stopped beside me. "Darn what?"

"I forgot to bring the lamp."

"Lamp? Where are you from, the seventeen hundreds?"

"Come on, you know what I mean." I sucked in a deep, annoyed breath of dank oxygen. "I found a flashlight here the last time, but I took it with me. I must have left it at the Ca."

There was a moment's silence. Joe took a breath and stuck his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, obnoxiously optimistic.

"Well, you can go back and get it, if you really want to." He shrugged. "I'll stay here and guard."

I raised an eyebrow. "Guard?"

"Yeah, y'know. Make sure nobody gets to the creepy little bait-trapped underground safe before you do." Apparently he was practicing his dry sense of humor.

"You don't have a flashlight?"

He shook his head.

"Some prepared boy scout _you_ are." I rolled my eyes and turned back around to face the yawning mouth of the tunnel. The green-tinted florescent lights in the main hallway illuminated only a few feet, and then beyond that—darkness. The concrete walls had broken out in an indefinite cold sweat, leaving the ground damp and slippery.

"Me?" Joe laughed wryly. "Allow me to forward that little comment back to you."

"I'm not a boy scout." I muttered, taking a step into the passageway and willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"No, but you're a detective, right?"

"Shhh. We have to concentrate."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because, it's dark and—"

"I can see in the dark."

I would have rolled my eyes again, had I not been using them for something far more important. "Well, yay for you. Now just be quiet and listen for a second."

Silence. It was blissful. I could feel the warmth of his presence beside me in the dark. Nearly all remnants of cold green light had been choked out by the denser blackness that lay like a thick fog in front of my eyes. I let one hand trail across the weeping concrete wall, imagining the streak of disturbance that would be visible in the light of day.

"I'm listening."

"There's going to be a crevasse up here in a minute. There's a board bridging the gap that will allow us to cross safely, but you have to step very carefully. Okay?"

"Got it. Can you say crevasse again, that was weird how you pronounced—"

"Can you just concentrate? Please?"

My annoyance levels were rising. I wasn't used to working beside someone on a case like this—never mind someone like Joe Hardy. There was a certain softness and vulnerability that shadowed his character every once in a while, but most of the time it was rendered invisible by the thick clouds of brash egotism.

I couldn't condone the way he did things, but I couldn't blow out his candle, either. He was only a fellow detective, executing means to arrive at the same ends as I. Our battle tactics may have been wildly different, but we were fighting for the same side. I had to respect that. What I couldn't respect, however, was the way he weighed situations for himself and determined that they were to be treated much too lightly.

He brushed past me, only slightly, so that I would feel it when he suddenly fell.

I screamed, remembering the crevasse as his hands grasped for mine and caught there. Gravity dragged me down with him, but when my knees hit the floor I suddenly realized that gravity was nothing more than his arm strength, which instantly gave out under the weight of laughter.

"You _idiot_ ," I growled, getting to my feet and smacking the dust off my jeans. "Don't _ever_ scare me like that again."

He couldn't stop laughing. The temptation was just too much for him to resist, I suppose. I stepped over him and continued down the tunnel.

"Did you…" He gasped, getting to his feet and trying to catch up with me, though I hadn't wandered far from the scene of his stupid practical joke. "Did you seriously think I fell down the crevasse?"

"What else would I think?"

He laughed again, sounding closer as he caught up to my pace. "You're so gullible."

This? This made me snap. I swung one arm out to my left, freezing him in his tracks.

"I am _not_ gullible." I said, calm and cold.

He smiled. I could tell by the way his next sentence sounded—laughter suppression with a side of sarcasm. "You're not at all prideful, either."

"Prideful?" I couldn't help but balk at his choice of words. "Oh, that's rich coming from…what—the king of humility?"

Joe exhaled a tired laugh. "Well, maybe not the _king._ But I'm up there."

I scoffed. "Whatever." And then the ground fell out from underneath me.

I'd never felt so physically blind before, and that's what scared me the most. I couldn't see what was above me or below me. I didn't know what to grab, what to hold onto. My heart leapt up into my throat and I fell.

But only for a second. Because two strong arms caught me—locking around my body like a vice. My fingers found them, holding tight. Warm iron tensed under soft skin. One arm was braced against my upper ribcage, and the other against my lower back. For a split second I felt nothing but my own heart pounding in my throat and the warmth of his hand on my hip.

"Hey," he said, soft and almost muffled. "Hey, are you alright?"

There was solid ground under my feet. I was breathing.

"Nancy?"

"Yeah," I shook the tension out of my head and attempted to swallow my heart back down. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

I turned towards him in the dark, but I was still blind. I had no idea how close his face was to mine, and for some reason that frightened me more than the fall had. My next breath caught the scent of spearmint. It was starting to feel familiar to me—like home.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I whispered, feeling short of oxygen for several reasons.

Joe's hand left my back. I hadn't even noticed that it was still there—I only noticed its absence, which allowed a damp cold to take his place against my skin. He back-stepped a pace, and I suddenly realized just how close we had been in the blindness of that moment. Cold—I felt it touch me in the places that his arms had been. Like an unwanted dance partner cutting in.

"Thank you," I said, still trying to catch my breath as Joe got down on his knees and felt for the edge of the crevasse.

"Hey, I found that board you were talking about."

I forced out a sigh of relief, attempting to blow out the tension with it. "Oh, good."

We crossed the gap, getting to the other side safe and sound. Though I'd only been in this tunnel once before, I remembered that there wasn't much distance left before the safe room. I kept moving through the blinding dark, bringing my hands together in a loud clap. Its echo was shorter. I took a few more paces and clapped again.

"What are you doing?" Joe asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

"Echolocation," I replied smartly, feeling most of my natural cool returning. "We're almost there."

I clapped again, and the reverb hit something two feet in front of my face. I stretched out my arms and immediately found the familiar shape of a door handle. Then I remembered the rope ladder to my left, where a steady stream of smoggy blue daylight was filtering down and leaving ambiguous vision in its fallout.

"Okay, here we go." I whispered, feeling the psych of the moment beginning to tingle in my fingertips as they made contact with the dusty keypad. "'What you already know, but backwards.' Four, three, five, five, six is now…six, five, five, three, four." I pressed each number as I spoke, biting my lip as my fingertip sank into the last, faded digit.

 _*Thunk!*_

The sound was beautiful—a digitally engineered bolt sliding out of locked position to swing wide the door. For a second I stared in amazement, allowing my eyes to adjust to the sudden tidal wave of dusty blue light that poured from the open door like water. Its source was the grated metal ceiling of the storeroom, which I could see more clearly as I stepped over the threshold and looked around.

Empty. The reality hit me right in the chest, taking the place of my heart, which had fallen through the bottom of my stomach. Everywhere I turned, there was nothing—nothing except foggy daylight crowning thousands of particles of dust, suspended in space like a snowstorm. I heard Joe's footsteps on the metal floor.

"Man," he whispered, sounding just as surprised. "Looks like someone cleared the place out."

I turned to face him, feeling my heartbeat quicken with his words. "Yeah…exactly."

Suddenly, I understood a message I'd received as Il Dottore not long ago—a box of chocolates without the chocolates. What did it mean? I wondered about it then, but now as I stood in the emptiness of the storeroom, I could easily find the direct ties between the two events. An empty box, an empty safe. Could it be that the chocolates were used to tell Il Dottore that the safe was now empty?

"I think they must have transferred the stolen goods." I said, finally prying myself out of my thoughts.

Joe nodded, having already made a thorough assessment of the safe's vacancy. "It's possible. But if you've never been in here before, how would you know that it was being used to house inventory?"

I briefed him about the fax machine information and the empty box of chocolates, explaining in detail my suspicions concerning the two. He listened and nodded from time to time.

"But I could be wrong." I admitted, trying to read the expression on his face as he studied the grated metal floor. "I don't really have the evidence to prove that there _was_ a transfer."

"Where do we get the evidence, then?"

I shrugged, absolutely dry of explanation. "I have no idea."

I was under the impression that Joe Hardy was the type to jump the gun. It was an impetuous freedom that I lacked, but didn't necessarily desire. It was also bred from self-assurance—and that would explain my deficiency—but I was starting to learn that one could have too much self-assurance. When faced with a fork in the road, our gun-jumper would pick the shortcut. He would claim to be right, nine times out of ten. But I would claim to be right ten times out of ten, with a slower and more careful approach.

Joe wanted to jump in and get his hands messy, even if it yielded no reward. He wanted the evidence and he wanted it now, and he didn't care how many flaming hoops he had to leap through to get there. I, however, wanted to gather my thoughts and lay everything out nice and orderly in my mind. By nature he was more strong-willed, but for some reason, I got the upper hand. Either that or he _let_ me have my way this time.

We talked about everything as we walked back to the Ca Nascosta. The sun was beginning to settle into an opaque wash of afternoon blue, seeming content with the even dispersal of clouds. Everything was warm, or terra cotta, or both. My eyes felt like they were still adjusting to the light of day, and the intense amount of blue reflecting in Joe's gaze was enough to make me doubt my vision. How could his eyes so closely resemble sapphires? It was a mystery to me.

I was lost in the moment—so much so that I forgot how to work my voice as I turned the corner and entered the patio of the Ca, just as the front door opened and admitted none other than Ned Nickerson. His gaze fell upon me immediately, sighing relief.

"Thank God you're alright," he said, descending the steps and meeting me in the middle of the patio. "I tried your cell, but no one answered."

I shook my head slowly. "I…forgot my cell phone at home."

"Home? As in, River Heights?"

"Yeah."

He laughed, like he couldn't believe it. "Are joking me?"

"No…" I trailed, suddenly remembering Joe's presence behind me, and turning to find him again. "Ned, this is—"

He was gone, as if merely a figment of my imagination this whole time. A certain warmth that had ushered me back to the Ca had now left me, too. I could feel the cold against my skin all of a sudden, though the sun was still shining relentlessly overhead.

"What did you say?" Ned asked, sounding confused. "This is what?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but found no words in queue. Instead I checked over my shoulder again, even sticking my head out the doorway to glance up and down the street. No trace of him. Just like the phantom. Vanished.

"Nothing," was my response for Ned, delivered with a complacent smile for his satisfaction.

"Okay," He shrugged, thinking no more of my odd behavior. "Anyway, I came looking for you because I was worried that you'd gotten into trouble."

I rolled my eyes, trying to be playful about it and not brushed the wrong way. "Honestly, Ned, you sound like Hannah. I'm not some kind of a hoodlum."

He sighed. "That's not what I meant. I just…get worried about you. This is dangerous stuff you're working on."

"Yes, I know." I closed my eyes and pulled in a breath, trying to cool my levels of irritation. "But I can handle it just fine."

"Of course you can." His voice was all sugar-coated softness, but his hand on my shoulder wasn't so gentle of a reassurance.

I don't know what it was, but something about the touch set me on edge. Why? How could the warmth of his hand bring a sensation so different from the feeling in my heart when Joe's arms caught my fall? How could I sense such an obvious difference between the two pairs of hands?

"Anyway," Ned freshened the topic with a change, probably noticing the absent look on my face. His hand dropped back to his side. "I was wondering if you wanted to go sightseeing with me."

I raised an eyebrow. "Sightseeing? Ned, I'm working on a case—"

"Yeah, but…" He stuck his hands into the pockets of his varsity jacket. "I think you could use a break. You know, recharge, relax…you look worn out. Like you've been thinking too much."

I succumbed to a faint smile. "You really need to work on your date pitches, Ned."

"It's not a date pitch," he shrugged. "It's just a friendly invitation. I can go by myself, but it'd be much more interesting with you."

"Okay, fine." I relented, partly out of selfishness to get away from this case for at least an hour. "Let me go grab my sunglasses."

The outing proved to be just as uneventful as I'd expected. It wasn't boring—just very predictable. We stuck to the thoroughly-beaten tourist paths, guided with booklets and armed with the information dumped upon us by tour guides (under Ned's insistence that we stop and ask questions about landmarks and statues and what sites we ought to view before sunset, et cetra.) It wasn't boring—it just wasn't my way of doing things. But this was Ned's idea, and I was simply tagging along.

We were headed to our last point of examination by way of gondola, just as the sun was going down. The sky was starting to speckle with a toothbrush-spray of yellow clouds, looking delicate against the light blue. It reminded me of a painting I'd looked at earlier that day—one of the heavens and a saint of some sort bathed in red and white linens and surrounded by a hundred points of light. Ned, who had been diligently reading the plaque, told me that it was a depiction of ascension. I wondered what possessed the painter to design an idea like that. Did he see ascension like the sunsets in Venice? Beautiful for a moment, then bringing a darkness afterward?

"So."

I looked up, prying my thoughts back to the here and now. "Hmm?"

Ned was sitting on the seat across from me, looking at me with a curious smile. "You're…quiet."

"Sorry," I unapologetically laughed, letting one hand fall to caress the ornately carved side of the boat and grace the surface of the water. It felt cool around my fingertips. "Just lost in thought, I guess."

"Mm." He could relate, apparently, and then fell into another silence himself.

It was a few seconds before he spoke again, pointing out the cornices on a building we'd just passed, telling me something about the design. I followed his gesturing left hand, down his muscular arm and finally to his face, which was neutral in expression and soft on the eye. He was attractive, but nothing about him was absolutely _striking_ like…well, like Joe.

 _No, Nancy. Stop thinking like that. It's the inner beauty that matters most._

I felt like a fool for being suddenly and uncharacteristically wavering under the power of a handsome face and figure. But there was something about Joseph Hardy—he was unlike anyone I'd ever known. Ned Nickerson was fine—great, even—but in a crowd at one of Bess' parties or standing with the rest of Emerson's football team, he just blended right in like camouflage. Joseph, on the other hand, was a sore thumb. A handsome, impetuous, self-absorbed sore thumb.

Being attracted to him was both undeniable and off-limits. I didn't want anyone or anything to distract me from my work. But I was losing that self-inflicted battle. I'd never experienced feelings like this before. Sometimes his behavior irritated me to no end. But that was only the competitive side of him. When something serious happened—like when I lost my footing in the tunnels—why had he been suddenly so protective of me? So overcome by a heart-in-throat feeling I assumed _I_ was the only one experiencing? Why did the pounding in my chest take so long to die down as he held me in the dark and asked if I was alright, whispers of desperation haunting his voice?

The evening was quickly spent. We rushed through the last exhibit before the gallery closed, and started to head back via cab. I sat near the window and watched dusk fall across the city, all indigo satin set with shop windows that were lit aglow with tungsten light. Everything else was polished and faded and rustic and smooth. The streets were reduced to lamppost bokeh and headlight reflections.

"Did you want to go grab something to eat, or…no." The way Ned asked it strongly suggested that he wished my reply to be the latter.

I could tell that he wanted to just head back to his lodgings for the night. He and his friends probably had something planned.

"Nah, that's okay," I shook my head.

He accepted the answer without a second thought, seeming pleased by my reply. I suppressed an eye-roll and looked out the window.

His stop was sooner than mine, so we parted ways in the street and I remained in the cab, watching him walk away as we drove across a bridge, which was beginning to dampen slightly with a thin layer of pastel fog. The Ca was only a short drive from there, and I soon found myself unlocking the front door and stepping inside.

All was low-lit and whisper-quiet. Helena was perched at her desk, underlining something in a paperback book. She glanced at me upon my entrance, but offered nothing more than an absent smile. I returned it and avoided conversation by slipping into my bedroom. However, as soon as I opened the door, something was there to catch my eye.

It was a simple, crème-colored envelope, with my first name printed carefully across the front. I swiped it up noiselessly and shut the door behind me, sinking down onto my bed and opening up the letter while simultaneously kicking off my heeled sandals.

There was one sheet of copy paper inside, with two lines of text in the most generic font ever. It said:

 _Nancy,_

 _Thank you for today. I wish I could have said this to your face, instead of in a dumb letter._

 _You're beautiful._

It wasn't signed.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: haha yes for sure. Joe is a frustratingly beautiful idiot :'''') EEEP I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS CHAPTER. Thanks for reading as always! _


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

 **Joe**

The water in the Argon building, in case I failed to mention, was cold. Freezing, in fact—like freshly melted ice. And it felt amazing on the cuts I kept slicing into my face as I attempted to shave in front of a tiny, corroded mirror. C'est la vie, right? Wait, I guess that's French. Just imagine an Italian equivalent, okay? Boom, done.

The water _was_ cold, but that's not why I kept slipping and cutting myself. It had more to do with my trip back to the library the evening prior.

I just couldn't stand it. I had to tell her, whether it was to her face or in a stupid, anonymous letter. The latter was obviously a coward's option, but I didn't have much of a choice when she'd already slipped out of my grasp for the rest of the day. Clarification—I slipped out of _her_ grasp. Because she was talking to some guy and I didn't like the way his voice sounded. So my intuition told me to get out of sight.

I wrote up the two-liner and printed it off and shoved it into an envelope and snuck into the Ca to deliver it to the crack under her bedroom door. (Literally the place was _so_ easy to break into, it was hard to believe that Nico was the first.) Thank God Helena wasn't there, because this time I would have literally no cover story.

Nancy would never be able to tell whom the letter was from—and that was exactly what I wanted. I didn't want her to know how much her presence distracted me. How much her glances shot sparkly blue bullets through my body. How I couldn't focus around her—couldn't think about anything but her. Why couldn't she have been less mysterious? Less beautiful? Why did she have to be so perfectly hotheaded and strong-willed? Why did she have to slay me every time she shot me a smile? Why did the warmth of her body against mine have to feel so perfect for those few seconds when I caught her fall in the darkness? Just…why?

I punished myself with reality via cold water in my face, through my hair, dripping down my neck and coursing its way over the muscles in my shoulders, my back. I quickly towel-dried my face and ignored the sting of the fresh cuts there. Then I pulled a t-shirt back on and headed upstairs to my "room."

It was on the same floor as Fango's office, which I quickly learned was vacant—not from busting in there, but from witnessing Nancy attempting to. I first caught a glimpse of her through the narrow window cut into the door. She had her back to me and a hairpin jabbed into the keyhole of Fango's doorknob. I felt a smile warm over my face for a second as I ran through the options of how to startle her. I decided to not be _too_ evil, and just quietly ease open the door. Her sense of hearing was sharp enough to catch me in the act before I got a chance to say anything.

She spun around. Gasped. Immediately looked relieved that I wasn't an older Italian dude in a hideous plaid suit.

I smiled anyway, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans. "Boo."

"Joseph," she sighed in relief and groaned in irritation (yes at the same time, it was amazing) then turned back to the door. "What are you doing here?"

I took a step closer, leaning one arm against the wall beside the door. "How did you know my full name was Joseph?"

"Because," She shrugged one shoulder and resituated the pin. "You said so yourself. The other day, when you met Helena."

"But I made up that name. So it could have been totally different."

"Yes, but you hesitated after you told her 'Joseph,' which means you had to think of a different _last_ name, not necessarily a different first name." She pulled the hairpin out and shoved it back in. "It was in your subconscious, see?"

I sighed a dry laugh. I wanted to say, _you're so perfect,_ but didn't.

"Josiah," I said, "could also be my full name. I used that one for an alias, too."

"Yes, but you had more time to think of that one." Nancy muttered, still not looking up from the doorknob. "And who's to say that _you_ came up with that alias, anyway? It was probably Sophia. Or someone from that fancy American school of yours."

I shrugged one shoulder, still leaning against the wall. Still looking down at her hands as the worked at picking the lock. Her auburn hair was hanging halfway over her shoulder, plotting a fall into her face at any moment. I wanted to push it back all the way, I wanted to run my fingers through it. But I couldn't.

Finally after a few seconds, Nancy looked up at me for the first time since I walked in. "Are you just going to stand there?" And noticing something about my face, she asked another question before I even had a chance to answer the first. "And what's this? Battle scars?"

"Yep. I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

"I notice everything," she said, forgetting the lock-picking job at hand and crossing her arms over her chest to give me a scrutinizing look. "Now may I ask where—?"

"You may _guess_ ," I allowed.

She tried not to roll her eyes, playing along. "Okay, I'm going to go with…barroom brawl. Am I close?"

"Dead on," I shook my head. "Gosh, you're good at this."

Nancy barely smiled. "What happened? Someone tried to card you?"

"Worse. The dude took my money and _then_ carded me. I was like, 'man, just give me my flipping margaritas.'"

Nancy laughed this time. But it was paired with an eye-roll. She turned back to the doorknob. "You're so ridiculous."

"Am I? And how do you define the word 'ridiculous?'"

"A person who acts like a fool for no purpose."

"Ah, but I _do_ have a purpose."

"Do you, now?" She blew a strand of hair out of her face—the strand of hair I was dying to brush aside for her. "And what is that?"

"The purpose…" I started, watching her fingers as they fought with the pin. "The _goal_ is to make you laugh."

At this, she straightened up and looked at me again. Her eyes were wider. "To make me laugh?"

I nodded. "Because you're so set against it."

"I am not set against—"

"You _are,_ and do you want to know why?"

"Not particularly, no." She rolled her eyes again, deciding that the doorknob was more intriguing than my face and returning her gaze there. "Because you're just going to throw some kind of pity party for yourself and say that it's because I 'don't like you,' or something."

"No, actually, I was going to say…"

Nancy shot me a look.

"I was going to say that it's because you act like a prissy, forty-year-old librarian."

If her eyes were wide when I said that I wanted to make her laugh, they were even wider now. Like, it probably _hurt_ to raise her eyebrows that much.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard."

She scoffed. "I do _not_ act like a prissy librarian—"

" _Forty-year-old_ librarian—"

"Whatever!" She brought her voice back down to its native, pious tone. "I just…I don't act like that, okay?"

Now it was _my_ turn to roll my eyes. "Well you talk like that, so…"

"No I don't." She shrugged. "You're just illiterate."

I laughed. "See? _Only_ a librarian would use that word!"

Her gaze was on the asbestos ceiling tiles now, frozen in an eye-roll to avoid my face. "You know what?" she said. "I have to concentrate, and you're distracting me."

"Well you're distracting me, too." I crossed my arms over my chest, pressing my shoulder blades against the wall behind me.

Nancy went back to the doorknob, blocking out everything else so as to make a careful examination of the pin—which was, by this point, warped beyond repair.

"Do you have to concentrate because you're trying to pick that lock?" I asked.

She gritted her teeth. I could almost see it. "Precisely."

"Why don't you just let me open it?"

She paused for a second, dropping her shoulders. "And how do you plan to do that?"

"Like this," I said, and smashed the end of my pocket knife—which I'd discreetly switched open when she wasn't looking—into the keyhole.

She jumped about two feet in the air, and I felt some kind of boyish twinge of satisfaction for scaring a girl for no reason. I twisted the knife hard and turned the doorknob. It was a little sturdier than most makes I'd encountered in Italy. The tumbler shattered inside. And then I kicked the door open. Because I could.

Nancy watched this whole procession from five feet away, looking like a murder witness. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted in shock.

I shrugged. "Just a little something I learned at that fancy American school."

"It's…not very discreet," she pointed out, eyeing the ruined doorknob.

"True," I flipped the knife shut and slipped it back into my pocket. "But no fingerprints."

She laughed dryly. "I see. So you compensate the inevitable damage you do with your lack of traceability. Clever."

I nodded slowly as she walked past me and through the doorway. Smiling a little at how well that one sentence summed up my entire life.

"So what are we doing here, anyway?" I asked, tossing the vacant hallway one last glance before stepping into the office after Nancy.

"We're going to search Fango's computer for evidence on the transfer." She said.

"Yeah?" I closed the door behind us, realizing that it would be a pretty useless barrier without a lock. I held it shut with one hand. "Well we better do it fast."

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _EEEP THANK YOU I'm so happy you liked that last chapter! Hehe I love Joe's descriptions too. :') He definitely needs Frank to balance him out. *nod nod* He's a reckless mess without this sensible older brother. lol yes I was lowkey laughing at Nancy and Ned's date... they're both so unenthused with each other. Yay I'm so glad you liked the way that chapter ended! ENJOY THIS ONE. *hugs u*_


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

 **Nancy**

"Since you're the one who broke the door, it's now officially your job to hold it shut in case…well, in case someone comes back." I blew the entire sentence out in a nervous sigh as I sank into the brown leather chair in front of Fango's computer.

Joe shot me a slightly unnerved glance from across the room. "Someone like Il Capitano."

I nodded, waking up the laptop and typing the very same alias into the password field. It brought me to the desktop, where I quickly navigated to the trashed messages from Gina. I found their latest chess game almost immediately—it was from February fourth.

"How will we know when he's coming back?" Joe asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the door as if this wasn't a pressing matter at all.

"Because, I have a pager from the GdiF and they will notify me when Fango is coming back." I nodded to affirm my own words, hoping for agreeable silence from his lips. It wasn't so. Instead he crushed my assurance with a different kind of suggestion.

"What if Sophia disabled it?"

My gaze snapped up from the chess match on the screen to meet his. "Disabled it?"

"Yeah, y'know." He shrugged one shoulder. "Like…turned off the notifications."

I lured in a deep breath, feeling short of it. "Well let's just…hope that she didn't."

He laughed. "Let's 'hope that she didn't?' This, coming from the girl who disses my edge-living?"

I rolled my eyes, not being able to resist the gesture any longer. "'Disses?'" I repeated, evading the topic.

"Yep, sorry. Is that word not in your dictionary yet? It should be."

"Just be quiet and keep the door shut."

He sighed. "I _am_ keeping the door shut."

"Fabulous," I forced a smirk in his direction. "Now do you think you can handle keeping _two_ things shut at the same time?"

It took a minute for that one to sink in—due to the thick skull, no doubt. I was beginning to learn that sass penetration took its time getting through that pretty little head of his.

"Oh, _ouch._ " He acted offended but couldn't hide the smile.

"Yeah," I nodded slowly, leaning back in the desk chair. "Want some ice for that burn?"

* _Beep, beep!*_

With the seconds-to-live look of shock Joe and I shot each other, you would have thought that the sound to interrupt our backbiting was the detonation of a small bomb, not the innocent beep of the pager in my jeans pocket.

"Was that—?"

"Yes!" I gasped, snapping into action. "Fango's coming back!"

As if on cue, I detected footsteps in the hallway—approaching footsteps growing in volume as they drew closer. Joe threw me a confused glance, trying to keep his cool. My heartbeat was already up in my throat, pounding hard.

"Dang it, dang it, dang it…" I whispered, scrolling down feverishly through the chess match on the laptop's screen, looking for something like a clue—something out of the ordinary. I didn't have time to translate the coded moves.

"How do you know it's him?" Joe asked, trying to lower his voice and failing.

"Just keep the door shut." My voice came out sounding like someone had my throat in their grasp.

The doorknob started to rattle with the telltale sound of a key shimmying inside.

"Shit!" Joe dug in his feet, bracing himself against the door.

I tried to ignore the sound of struggle on the other side. The sound of Antonio Fango muttering, then quieting, then trying the key again. Then trying the knob again. Joe shot me a desperate look.

"Uh, Nance? Hurry _up!_ "

"I'm trying, okay?" I didn't realize how loud my voice had become.

The rattling of the door momentarily stopped. As did my heart. Joe's hand was still tightened over the knob. Then a burst of fully-ticked Italian demands exploded from the other side, muffled slightly as fists found it too, banging out the rest of his rage.

"Chi è in là!" he shouted.

My hands were shaking. I shot through the rest of the chess match, finding nothing but coded moves that I couldn't decipher at first glance.

"Come on, Nancy…" Joe groaned, pressing both hands to the door as it violently shook under the weight of Fango's desperation.

I finally glimpsed something at the very end of Fango and Gina's conversation—something other than three-character exchanges. I struggled to read what it said, swallowing my pounding heart long enough to focus.

 _SCARAMUCCIA: Great game! I remember playing one very similar near the recycling bin at Rialto Market._

 _IL CAPITANO: I do not have time to go there._

 _SCARAMUCCIA: When do you ever "not have time," Fango?_

 _IL CAPITANO:_ _Arlecchino is need of this information._

 _SCARAMUCCIA: I'm surprised he doesn't already know._

 _IL CAPITANO: Tell me now. I will trash this message as soon as we have closed the game._

 _SCARAMUCCIA: The transfer took place last night. Our safe and secure store is now empty and all inventory is being housed at Il Dottore's storage._

 _IL CAPITANO: Does Il Dottore know about the transfer?_

 _SCARAMUCCIA: No. I'm sure you can handle that communication. Some chocolates, perhaps?_

 _IL CAPITANO: Understood._

"Chi è in là!" Fango yelled again, banging on the door.

I looked up from the laptop, finding Joe's eyes, which were wide with an adrenaline rush only he could wear that casually. He was up against a wall, but you would never know it from the smile begging to break out on his face.

"He wants to know who's in here," Joe said, trying his level best to not laugh and failing. "Sorry, bro, can't tell you! It could ruin our reputations!"

I shut the laptop, getting to my feet.

"You done?" Joe shot an urgent glance from me to the computer on the desk.

"Yeah," I nodded. "But how are we going to get out of here?"

"We will."

I intensely loathed ambiguity and avoided answers. It was annoying, especially in bust-or-run situations. I wanted to roll my eyes, but didn't. Because my heartbeat was still hostilely taking over my head.

Joe pulled out his pocket knife and flipped it open, prying off the front of the locking mechanism in the doorknob. I watched as he jammed the sharp end into the hole it left, twisting the blade until it stuck in a half-broken, almost-falling-out position.

I gestured towards the makeshift job. "Textbook example of how guys fix things."

"Don't laugh," he said, back-stepping a few paces and watching the doorknob rattle to no avail. "My textbook example is going to save your butt. And mine."

"Yeah?" I tried not to blow up. " _How,_ may I ask?"

Joe adjusted the knife slightly, making sure it was thoroughly stuck in the doorknob. "That'll hold for about fifteen more seconds."

"Oh, okay, now I get it." I nodded, crossing my arms over my chest and giving him a healthy dose of his own native sarcasm.

He didn't respond—it was like he was suddenly in survival mode, something I'd not seen from him until that moment. His warm fingers latched around my elbow and gently pulled me back over to the window—the window which was swung wide open to welcome Fango's homing pigeon.

I didn't understand—that is, until Joe stepped up onto the edge of the window and looked back at me. I was clueless.

"We have to jump out the window." He said.

I felt my eyes widen far more than was natural. "Are you _insane_?!"

"Yes."

And then he grabbed my hand, pulled me into his arms, and jumped.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: Joe is rather sweet - despite all of his crazy ideas. :') omg you imagine Joe with a beard! tbh he would be cute however but I'm bias... 3 hehe I think you got your answer to your last question with the chapter! EEP I HOPE YOU LIKE IT. Thanks so much for reading!_

 _Is your heart in the game: ASDGHJKL THANK YOU I'm so happy you liked that last chapter! :D I definitely tried to blend the mystery elements equally with the romance elements but it's hard sometimes! haha. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you like this installment! _


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

 **Joe**

I'd seen a fair amount of wide eyes in my lifetime. They were mostly delivered by girls my age with high-pitch screams that sounded more like sirens. It was a predictable reaction to the classic pranks that never got old—smuggled snakes, sticky gum meets pretty blonde hair, spiders, worms, and other backyard monsters. Wide eyes and squeamish screams were my thing back in middle school—they turned me on.

So I was used to horrified looks. They were the normal reaction to ninety-nine percent of everything I said and did. But when I told Nancy that we had to jump out the window, she looked at me with blue sapphires so huge and shocked, they put my other victims' expressions to shame. I couldn't stop and relish the reaction, though. We had t-minus five seconds to jump out the third-story window and I wasn't leaving her behind, no matter how much she protested. I pulled her up onto the windowsill, into my arms, and took the leap. Literally. And no, I felt nothing like Superman rescuing Lois Lane.

Everything went down exactly as I'd imagined. My converse hit the tile roof of the neighboring building and gravity did the rest of the work, dragging us down to the edge of the roof and dumping us on the top landing of the emergency exit stairs. Nancy gripped the collar of my shirt and unromantically clawed at my shoulder the entire time.

I didn't let her stop for a breath once we landed. I assessed that she was okay and dragged her down the flight of stairs, out of sight. Once Fango got back into his office, he'd be looking everywhere—including out the window—to find the hooligans who'd broken in. As soon as we were in the shadow of the surrounding buildings and well hidden from sight, I slowed to a stop and caught my breath. Nancy did the same, pressing her palm to her sternum and gasping for air.

"How did you…" she paused, still trying to get her breath back. "How did you know those emergency exit stairs were there?"

I shrugged, leaning against the wall. "I didn't know. I just guessed. You can't really pass for an international spy without making some wild guesses sometimes, right?"

The following look from Nancy was so disbelieving it hurt. She wasn't buying my cons anymore. It was sad.

"Yeah, you're right." I smiled a little, redemptively. "I knew the stairs were here before. I make it a habit to map out emergency exits, in case I ever need to escape from someone."

Nancy nodded. "Someone like Il Capitano?"

"No. Someone like you."

She rolled her eyes (for about the seventeenth time that hour) and walked away, resisting the urge to smack me on her way passed. I could tell that she wanted to—I could practically see her fingers twitching with the temptation. I followed her along the edge of the courtyard and out of Campo dei Frari.

The clouds were beginning to hover, slowing down and crowding into a thick layer of future rain. It was cold without the sun, but I barely felt it through my t-shirt as I followed Nancy along the side of the river. She was ahead of me, and still rushing. But I was aching to know what she found on the computer back there, so I couldn't stand the single-file deal any longer.

"Hey," I said, reaching out and grabbing her elbow to stop her. "Wait up. Fango can't run _that_ fast."

She exhaled a laugh, pressing her fingertips to her forehead. "Sorry. Just…nervous."

"What did you find on his computer?" I asked, side-stepping out of someone's way on the narrow sidewalk.

"A conversation," she said, "between Fango and Gina. She wanted to send the information to him physically, through a dead drop. But he insisted that she tell him, and she did. The information was this: she said that the transfer of the inventory happened the night before this message was sent. It's been taken to 'Il Dottore's storage,' wherever that is."

I felt my brow lower slightly. "And when was this message sent?"

"February fourth."

 _The fourth._ I thought about it for a minute. February fourth was the day after I'd arrived in Venice. News of Nico's capture had been spreading through the local papers, and Sophia had just inserted me into the club at Casa dei Giochi. That night was the second stakeout, when I ran into Nancy on the rooftop and overheard Gina, Fango, and Tazza talking in the shadows.

I felt a swallow slip down my throat as I remembered Gina's voice, whispering words I could barely make out the first time I'd heard them: _"Security? And you thought that was prudent? On a night like this?"_

I hadn't understood it then, but I understood it perfectly now. The GdiF thought something big was going to happen that night at the Palazzo Orpello—something was going to be stolen. That's what they assumed, but they were wrong. Something big _was_ going to happen that night—but not at the Palazzo Orpello. While everyone was distracted with a potential theft, the crime ring was transferring stolen goods across the city—and possibly even out of the country.

The realization hit me at almost the same time it hit Nancy. She looked up at me, eyes back to being super wide. "That would make _perfect_ sense. They _wanted_ us to be distracted with the stakeout—so that we wouldn't catch them transferring the stolen art. Dang it!"

"It's the GdiF's fault," I said. "And mine. I'm the one who gave them the clue about the Palazzo Orpello."

Nancy shook her head. "You didn't know any better, though. Nobody knew better."

"True."

Nancy ran one hand through her long waves of hair. She would want to get away and think for a while, by herself—she was introverted like that—which meant that I was going to lose her, for at least a few hours.

"Hey," I caught up to her pace, cutting off a few pedestrians and not caring. "Has Sophia called you at all?"

"No. Has she called you?"

I shook my head. "It's so weird. I don't get it."

Nancy shrugged one shoulder. "I do, sort of. She's on some kind of a power trip. She wants to be on top, and doesn't mind making some not-too-legal moves to get there."

"You really think so?" I asked. "She seems like the type who'd be a stickler for the rules."

"She _seems_ so, but I don't think she is. I think she just hates the fact that she isn't the boss." Nancy started to slow to a stop, and I realized that the doorway we were approaching was the entrance to the Ca. "The way she practically 'fired' me, for instance—"

"She fired you?"

"Well not _officially,_ but she just stopped consulting me and…stopped calling me." Nancy blew out a sigh, letting her fingers trail across the terra cotta wall. "I don't understand what I ever did to lose her trust."

There was a moment's pause, where I tried to focus enough to respond, but couldn't. It was something about her hand, touching the wall. I wanted to hold it. So bad.

"I guess we just have to focus on what's important now," I said, trying to take my own advice in a totally different context. "Sophia isn't the problem. We need to figure out where Il Dottore's storage is, to find the stolen art."

Nancy nodded, seeming absent. Finally she lifted her gaze to mine and relented to a little smile, as if caught off guard. "Yeah. I guess I'll catch up with you later."

"When?"

She smiled one of those little, confused smiles. "Well, where are you staying?"

I felt the urge to be an idiot. "Nowhere in particular."

She dropped her shoulders. "Come on."

I shrugged. "Park benches. And other confidential areas."

"Seriously…"

"The Argon building."

Her eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead. "You're kidding."

"Nope," I shook my head. "My room's the one right across from Fango. Which is very comforting. Maybe tonight I'll go over and politely ask if I can have my pocketknife back."

Nancy laughed—one of her genuine laughs, the kind that told me the thing I just said was _actually_ funny and not lame. It was a beautiful thing to behold.

We traded some kind of a "see you later," but I didn't unfreeze myself from the patio entrance until the front door shut and Nancy was out of sight. For a minute I just stood there, trying to ignore the way my heartbeat was losing its rhythm in her wake. Why was I letting a girl mess me up like this?

As I turned to leave, I heard something that made my blood freeze in my veins.

Nancy's scream.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _Haha yes! It kind of does qualify as suicide if you are probably going to die but maybe there's a small chance you won't... *starts thinking deeply with you lol* EEP THANK YOU I really love writing their banter...like more than anything ever hahaa xD I hope you liked this chapter!_


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

 **Nancy**

When I entered my bedroom, I was hit with a wave of orange heat— _fire._

Suddenly, I didn't know what to do. My voice was a tangle in my throat as I fell back a step and screamed. Why was I screaming? I needed to put out the fire. A door slammed open behind me and footsteps rushed into my room.

"What the… Nancy!" Joe took my arm firmly, waking me from my state of shock. "Get some water! Come on…" He reached back and started to pull off his t-shirt.

I ran to the bathroom, grabbing the ceramic hand basin on my way and filling it with water. My heart had jumped up into my throat for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and sweat started breaking out along my spine. I ran back into the bedroom, where Joe was beating the flames with his shirt, and threw the water onto the remains of the fire. It sizzled and plumed with smoke, then went out. A few wayward flames attempted to survive, biting onto the carpet, but Joe quickly whipped them dead.

We were both breathing hard. The smoke was surprisingly thick in the tight space, and I fell back a step, getting a lungful of it and coughing violently into my elbow. Joe let his now ash-covered shirt fall to the floor, taking my shoulders in his hands. The contact was so sudden and firm, it almost startled me. His fingers were closed tight around my shoulders, shaking as if losing control. I didn't even notice where my own hands had fallen—resting on his bare chest.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice panicked, his hands trembling.

I nodded, looking up into his face. Into his eyes, which read mine like a textbook, back and forth.

"Are you sure you're not hurt? Nancy—"

"Joe, I'm _fine._ " I insisted, trying to dispel that look of fear haunting his eyes. "I'm fine."

He let go of my shoulders, just as suddenly as he had latched onto them, exhaling something that might have wanted to be words. He stepped to the side of the room, placing his hands on the writing desk against the wall—trying to regain his composure.

I stooped down to examine the pile of ashes on the floor, feeling my eyebrows meet in the middle of my forehead. Whatever the substance was, it had combusted quickly, leaving no traceability as to who had done it. I took a short breath and turned around to face Joe, who had his back to me.

"Why would someone…" My voice died in my throat, extinguishing itself like the flames when my gaze fell on him.

Joe was still standing with his fists pressed against the desk and his head down. He still hadn't caught his breath. The muscles in his back contracted on every exhale, like he was fighting a war under his skin. My focus fell to a tattoo between his shoulder blades—a tattoo of gun scope crosshairs.

 _Why crosshairs?_ I thought, as I rose to my feet and took a few steps forward. _Why would he print the vision of a killer on his back?_ I felt a swallow slip down my throat as I stopped beside him.

"Joe?"

He closed his eye, not replying. Not even taking a breath.

"Joe," it was more like a whisper this time. "What is it?"

"What is what." His eyes remained shut, determined to not let anything escape.

My gaze slipped down his spine, feeling invasive. One, two, three vertebra and then the sculpted course between his shoulder blades. There was the tattoo, scarring him like the tip of an iceberg, alluding to a bigger scar just underneath the surface.

I didn't need to repeat the whole question. I only needed one word—one word and my touch. I couldn't help it. My fingers didn't belong to me—they belonged to something else that lived inside of me and ached to feel his skin. I touched it, right where the imaginary bullet would have gone.

"This." I said.

He pulled in a short breath at the contact—like it startled him. His eyes opened and wanted to find mine, but he couldn't quite face me yet. Not directly. I wanted to take my hand away. My body fought the idea, but surrendered. I felt the cold on my fingertips. The absence of him.

"Don't ask me about it." His blue eyes caught mine. "Please."

My brow lowered and I shook my head. "What do you mean? I don't understand—"

"And it's best that you don't." he said, stepping around me to get to the door, which was still hanging ajar on its hinges. He paused only for a split second to say, "Don't touch those ashes until their cold." Then he was gone. One, two, three, four, five, six footsteps on cold marble, followed by the sound of the front door closing. My eyelids slammed shut with it.

 _What just happened?_ Among all the questions blowing through my heart like a hurricane, that was the most glaring. It felt as if a metamorphosis had occurred. I realized that I didn't really know who Joe Hardy was. He was all very much hidden from me. But he wouldn't be for long.

I drew in a deep breath, turning back to the pile of ashes in the middle of my bedroom floor. I sank to my knees to get a better look, and immediately, something caught my eye. It was a scrap of material, barely even breathed on by the flames. I instantly recognized the feeling of silk on my skin. Red silk. It was my dress—my Samantha Quick disguise—that someone had lit on fire and left to burn in the middle of the floor.

"What on earth…" I heard myself whisper, wondering if perhaps I'd been mistaken. There was only one way to find out.

Getting to my feet, I crossed the room and swung open the doors of my wardrobe. On the simple wooden hanger, where my silky red dress had once hung, there was now a note, hand-written on a sheet of yellow paper and secured with the brass clips. I pulled it off and read the one line of text, left in what looked like a heated scrawl.

 ** _I told you to stop._**

It was signed with initials.

 ** _S.Q._**

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: hehe nope she definitely was frightened with good reason! I hope this chapter didn't disappoint! Many more secrets to be revealed yet... *rubs hands together maliciously* I KNOW RIGHT i just want them to hold hands too :''''') Enjoy this installment and thank you for reading! 3_


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

 **Joe**

Everything reminded me of what happened. Her scream, the fire, the way the smoke filled my lungs like an incantation, whispering that it would break me, because it was stronger than me, and I couldn't do anything about it. The flames found their way into my veins, possessing me and digging up the bones of an anger I'd kept buried for so long. It made me stronger, but not more powerful. Fire still beat me, even if I'd slaughtered it this time.

I felt like I was about to lose someone again.

I didn't realize how much of that anger was still pumping through my blood until I grabbed Nancy by the shoulders and her wide eyes searched mine, not finding what she was looking for. She wouldn't find it, not in my eyes. But I knew that she would dig deeper for the truth and find it somewhere. She would be looking for it, now. I'd let my guard down. I'd given myself away.

On the outside, I had to pretend that I was over it. She was gone, and everyone at school said that, yeah, it sucked, but it happened. They didn't know a fraction of it. But I was trained in secrecy. I stitched it up and kept it under combination locks, somewhere deep inside my chest right where it would hurt every time someone mentioned her name.

She was dead. It was over. But it wasn't. Because I could never get over it. I'd tried to. I'd failed to.

The first time was a week after it happened. I was alone in the basement, dueling with the battered black punching bag. I don't know who won, but I walked away with more battle scars—bloody fists and knuckles, purple bruises wrapping my wrists. Actually, I didn't walk away. I collapsed. On the concrete floor. And I cried for the first time.

Nancy didn't know anything about it, and I loved that. It was a black mark—something everyone had to step around and avoid, pretending that it didn't exist. I didn't want her to be like that. I didn't want to be tainted in her eyes.

I might've gotten away with almost falling apart earlier, but I screwed up. I took off my shirt. And she saw the tattoo. She asked about it. Her detective brain connected the dots. She knew something was up. And she wasn't going to just let me blow it off. She was going to figure it all out. No matter how hard I tried to keep it locked up. She had hairpins that knew how to disarm locks like that—they lived in her eyes.

Afternoon turned into evening and I laid on the floor and watched the sunlight slant through the windows and impale itself on the buildings. It was orange, now. Bright enough to get past my eyelids. I never even looked at the time, feeling like it had betrayed me—telling me that it would heal me and never following through.

I was waiting for the knock on the door. I knew it would come before nightfall, but I didn't know when. So I waited. And it did come. Quiet. Louder than anything.

I got to my feet and grabbed a button-down shirt from my suitcase, throwing it on. I hadn't changed before now, feeling too much like I had a fever. The tattoo was burning on my back, the way it had on the night I got it.

I pulled open the door, and our eyes found each other. Blue.

"Hi," Nancy said, her voice telling me a thousand other things at the same time.

I rested my head against the door frame. "Hi."

She just looked at me, not knowing what to say. That made two of us. Because I had nothing. I was numb. Empty. Nothing.

"Do you…" she paused, freeing her hands to tangle through her hair. "Do you want to go get a coffee, or something?"

"I hate coffee," I said, mastering the dryness only because I'd lost the capacity to smile.

Nancy blew out a sigh. "What _do_ you like, then?"

"I know where this is going, you know."

She looked at me, as if I'd reached down into her lungs and stolen all the pretty, eloquent words she liked to use as bush-beaters.

"I know you want to talk about what happened." I said.

She took her lower lip between her perfect teeth, and let her gaze trail to the threshold, as if that was the only barrier between us and she was going to blow it to pieces. The look in her eyes was determined. Beautiful. It killed me. I could already feel the pins sliding into the lock in my chest.

"Yeah. I do."

"Okay," I said, and stepped out into the hallway with her, shutting the door behind me. "Fine."

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: EEEP I'm so glad you liked the last chapter! I was worried that it felt too rushed so I was happy to hear that you thought the pacing was good. :) muahaha yess much secrets are yet to be revealed. I hope you like this installment! It's a short one lol so I'll update again soon. Thank you for reading!_


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

 **Nancy**

Sunset was a beautiful thing in Venice. Most of the evenings I had witnessed were clear and cloudless, leaving a satin ombre of pinks and golds to color the sky and find their abstract expression in the reflective wake of the gondolas. Sometimes clouds would come on stage—sweeping like giant dancers, absorbing the sunrays like great white sponges. It made me want to snatch them right out of the sky and ring the warm rainbow water all over my body. A day-dreamy and childish urge, perhaps—but true, nonetheless.

Tonight's sunset wasn't quite as magical. It was as if the heavy feeling settling in the seabed of my heart had projected itself into the heavens for the whole city to observe. An untorn blanket of deep gray clouds hovered in the sky, dispersing only at the very edge of the horizon, where a strip of harsh, opaque yellow stretched in ode to the sun, which had just dipped out of sight. Something in the air was mirroring my very present emotions—unsettled, unsure, curious.

I'd managed to convince Joe to join me for coffee somewhere in town. I'd wanted the invitation to be discreet, but he caught my drift before it had properly presented itself. He was intuitive, but so was I. We were a fair match. Two fighters. Not going down. I think he knew that. That's why he followed me out of the Argon building and down the street. He was rolling with my punches—not giving up, but giving in. I didn't know why.

My head was in a fog, and I couldn't think far beyond the next step—which was finding a place to get a coffee. Rialto Market was the first place we came upon, and it ended up being perfect.

I'd never been there at night and thus wasn't aware of the green and white pinstriped awning which was unfurled at sundown to stretch over the patio of tables and chairs, providing something of a warmer, quieter, café-like setting. Event tent windows lined one side of the market, looking out to the canal and blocking the wind, which was surprisingly chilly. Tiny string lights dipped in waves under the canvas ceiling, shining smooth points of light down on the dining area.

I ordered our drinks (latte for me and hot chocolate for Joe.) Then I carried them back to the small table for two, where Joe was waiting with his head resting on the back of the chair. He was looking up at the little lights strung from the awning.

"So," I started, taking the lid off my latte and stirring it.

I didn't know where to begin. I'd always been so good at leading conversations, but I was going into this one blind. What a helpless feeling that was. I would have to just ask. Cluelessly, foolishly ask. And wait for the reply, which could be literally anything.

"Tell me about your tattoo."

He straightened up a little, glancing at the cup of hot chocolate in front of him. He fingered the paper drink sleeve, not looking up.

"There isn't much to tell." He said. "I felt like getting a tattoo one night, so I did."

I let my eyes fall shut for a moment, drawing in a deep, cool breath. "A guy like you doesn't get a crosshairs tattoo on his back for _no reason._ "

He exhaled a shallow sigh, nodding a little, though still looking at the table. "You're right. He doesn't. He didn't."

"Why, then?"

A few seconds of silence cut in. He finally lifted his gaze to meet mine, the look in his eyes defeated, retreating, wanting to go home. Reflecting the hundreds of lights over our heads.

"There was this girl," he began, keeping eye contact. "Back in high school. Her name was Iola. We were dating, but it wasn't serious. She was like one of those super smart quiet girls—she didn't say much, but she had a lot to say. She was pretty and everyone liked her. She was also my best friend's sister."

Joe looked down, a deeper darkness drifting into his eyes with those last few words. I didn't say anything, waiting for him to continue on his own.

"Frank and I had just been initiated into ATAC. We hadn't worked on many cases yet, just some introductory stuff. But we were in trouble without knowing it." He paused, running his fingers over the tabletop. "There was this group of assassins. What they wanted and how we caught them doesn't matter…basically, they were trying to kill us. They'd planted a bomb in our convertible. Iola was out with me that day. We had an argument and she wanted to leave, so she went out to the car and…" His eyes shut. "The bomb detonated."

I felt my heart dive down. "And she was killed?"

He nodded, not opening his eyes.

My hand went to my lips, muffling the shaky whisper that escaped. "Oh my god…"

I didn't know what else to say. I couldn't say _anything._ How could I? Words wouldn't cut it.

"How long ago did this happen?"

He let the answer out on his next breath, which was heavy. "Almost two years."

I pressed my lips together, taking in a deeper breath. "Did you…"

He looked up.

"Did you love her?"

"No," he let go of the word easily, shaking his head. "I cared about her, though. A lot." his voice cracked a little on the last few syllables. He was looking down at the table again, as if trying to distract himself with the inanimate objects that lay there. "And yet…I was the cause of her death."

"Joe, it wasn't your—"

" _Don't_ say that it wasn't my fault," he cut in firmly, and I noticed how his hand on the table suddenly pulled into a tight fist. "You don't know how many times I had to hear people say that. Hundreds of times, all _lies._ "

"Joe…" I said, soft.

"It _was_ my fault." He insisted, looking straight into my eyes. "She died in a car bomb meant for _me_ —"

" _And_ your brother—"

"Yes, but she wasn't _his_ girlfriend." He paused, like he didn't want to finish. His voice was threatening to break. "She was mine."

I couldn't relate to the pain he was dealing with, but I could imagine how he felt. As if he'd had the responsibility to protect some _one_ —and failed. And now he would allow that to haunt him forever.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be sorry," I let the words spill out, feeling the urge to take his warm, strong, beautiful fist in both my hands—but not allowing it. "And don't say that it was your fault. It was just as much Iola's fault as it was yours."

He shook his head, barely letting himself consider my words. "If we hadn't been together, she wouldn't've been there. _I put her_ in a dangerous situation—"

"But it was _her_ choice to be with you. It was her choice to be in your car that day. She knew that you were involved with private investigations, didn't she?"

Joe shrugged one shoulder. "We…tried to keep the whole thing under wraps."

"Keyword _tried_ ," I emphasized, leaning forward slightly to catch his eye contact again. "Don't tell me your own girlfriend didn't catch _some_ drifts. Especially if she was smart, like you said."

He didn't reply.

"My point is—"

"Your point is wrong," Joe interrupted. "Iola wasn't as informed as you think. She heard rumors, maybe, but I never told her anything. And that was wrong of me. I should never have let her get close without knowing…without knowing that I could kill her."

"Joe." My voice landed harsh. "You didn't kill her."

"But _they_ did. And I don't care what name you give them—assassins, terrorists, enemies…they're all the same to me. They're in every other person, on every single mission. They're the guys who wanted to kill me and _missed._ Well, next time they're not going to miss. That's why I got the tattoo. As a reminder to me, that they're _not_ going to miss next time. And I'm not going to let anyone else die in my place."

He said it all with such heartbreaking determination. Like a boy soldier going off to fight a war. It was like he saw death not as noble or acceptable, but as deserved.

How he could have kept something so heavy and painful all shut up inside? Before the fire incident, his personality had been decided in my mind—forward, open, extroverted, brash, impetuous. But now, everything was different. I'd been handed the light and allowed to probe the darkness.

"Joe," I said, trying to get his eye contact back.

He didn't look up. I couldn't bear the distance anymore. I reached across the table and laid my hand on his fist, which was warm and soft and everything I'd imagined. He glanced up at our hands for a moment, then all the way to my eyes.

"Joe, has everyone forgiven you for what happened? Your parents, your brother, Iola's family?"

He hesitated, as if knowing where I was taking this, but surrendering by some force that flowed through the connection of our hands. "Yeah. They have."

"Then there's only one person left, and he's been holding the grudge for way too long." I emphasized the last three words, starting to notice the pulse in his wrist, where my fingertips had fallen. "You need to forgive _yourself,_ Joe. It's not like you can change anything. It's over."

There was another short pause. His gaze fell back to the table and he drew in a longer breath. "You're right," he said. "I can't change anything." Then his eyes found mine again and he shook his head slowly. "But it's _never_ going to be over."

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _Sorry this chapter is so late! I hope you enjoy this installment. (hehe you guessed right! good job!) Thank you for reading as always! :)_


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

 **Joe**

The next morning felt like waking up from anesthesia after a surgery. The hours preluding sleep were blurred, and I felt like I had stitches down the front of my body—a nasty seal-up job after something important had been extracted from my insides. There was no taking it back, now.

Telling her everything wasn't even the worst part. In fact, I was almost surprised by how easily the words spilled from my mouth like they'd been waiting at the floodgates for two years. The worst part was listening to her response—first shock, then more questions, then the sagacious advice I'd heard from countless others: _you have to forgive yourself._ Never did those words echo in my mind so long than when Nancy spoke them. The sound of her voice haunted me all night long.

She didn't understand. I _couldn't_ forgive myself. I couldn't extinguish the pain, I could only throw a sheet over it. I could only hide it, ignore it, escape from myself in the moment like some people escape from themselves at a bar. Nobody could hear the person sobbing at the back of the room if the music was pumping loud enough.

I could hide it around almost everyone. Except for Nancy. At first, I had no idea what it was that made me absolutely lose my grip around her. I'd slowly, unconsciously fallen for her. I wasn't aware of it at first—no, I thought I had everything under control as usual. But then boom, consciousness returned and there I was with saltwater-filled lungs from the oceans in her eyes.

That fact scared me. Getting close to someone was foreign ground. I had to know if I was running onto a minefield. I had to know if she felt the same way.

My expert half-coward half-man plan involved going back to that library I loved so much. It was the only place I'd managed to find a computer and printer in this city—except for Fango's office. But I wasn't about to ask if I could borrow his computer. Not after I'd broken in earlier. That would just be…overstepping the mark.

So I typed out the letter in absolute agony for three hours (literally) and printed it off, feeling like I'd left a sizable chunk of my heart stuck in the computer.

As I walked to the Ca, I begged my intelligent designer to please grace me with Nancy's absence. The letter couldn't be given, it had to be left. She would have to find it. Just like she'd found the other notes from me. I couldn't deal with the inevitable conversation that would follow the opening of that letter. I mean, I _could_ deal with it. Just not right now.

I stopped in front of the Ca Nascosta and looked up at the terra cotta walls glowing in the brightness of the sun. If Nancy was gone, then I was almost certain that her roommate would be there. She would probably be working at that little desk in the lobby with the notebooks full of German writing—but I had to walk _through_ the lobby to get to Nancy's bedroom. Leaving the note anywhere other than her bedroom wasn't even an option for me. I didn't want it to fall into the wrong hands or risk someone (like Helena Berg) opening it.

There was one other way in, and that was on the river side of the Ca. Sure, there were no doors on that level, but who said I couldn't climb? I was having flashbacks to the stakeout at the Palazzo Orpello as I scoped out my best footholds and started to scale up the side of the building. It was somewhere around ten o'clock in the morning and the streets were pretty empty, so I was safe from busybodies who might wonder who's the dude climbing up the Ca in a black hoodie, jeans, Converse, and sunglasses? I slaughtered discretion.

I landed softly on the second story balcony, trying to melt into the six inches of wall that bolstered the door on either side. I peered through the pane of glass closest to my face, scanning the room for any sign of life. _Nope. Nothing._ I eased the door open and listened for a trace of sound coming from the bathroom. Silence again. I let myself in.

All I needed to do was leave the letter on her bed, which was neatly made. Assuming that Helena was just outside the door, I quickly did the fatal deed and got out of there.

Once I was back out on the balcony, I decided to take a shortcut—or a long cut, depending on your perspective—up instead of down, and over the roof of the Ca, which would inevitably bring me back to the front patio. The roof was flat, and therefore cake to pull myself up onto. It was all dusty and baking in the full sun. I took my time getting to the other side, enjoying the scenery as much as possible considering everything.

On my way to the edge of the roof, I also caught a glimpse of the lower altana, where an old woman with leathery tan skin was reclining in a lawn chair, sunning herself. Margherita Faubourg, I presumed. Attempting, as always, to be overtly friendly, I wanted to wave and ask her if I presumed correctly, but it wasn't quite the time or the place.

So I jogged to the edge of the roof and jumped off, hoping that my aim for the stairs was accurate enough to save my life. It was, but the landing was a little lower than I'd remembered, and I ended up almost falling down the stairs and making a ridiculous amount of noise. But no one heard. Hopefully.

The patio looked exactly the same as it had the day before. Nothing had been moved or touched or even _breathed on,_ for that matter—nothing except the small square of yellow paper that was lying on the table, just begging to be blown away by the light wind that was stirring up some leaves on the cobblestone. I snatched up the note and gave it a quick read. It was printed by a typewriter, and I couldn't help but notice how all the _A_ 's were faded, as if that key was on its way out.

 ** _Joe,_**

 ** _Would you mind running an errand for me? I seem to have lost my Samantha Quick glasses. It would be awesome if you could go to the kiosk outside Banco dell' Oro and grab me a new pair. You can just leave them in my bedroom and I'll pay you back later. Thanks so much!_**

 ** _Nancy_**

I read the note a few times, feeling a little surprised, before slipping it into my back pocket. It was strange, being typewritten—but Nancy was just the kind of girl who would do cliché vintage things like write notes on an old fashioned typewriter. So I headed off to find her some new sunglasses.

Thankfully I remembered the way to Banco dell' Oro and the walk wasn't a big deal. I actually kind of enjoyed the warm, sunlight and the way the cold air felt in my lungs. Everything was (relatively) chill, so I could sort of relax, shrugging the tension out of my back.

The kiosk at Banco dell' Oro was like a self-serve deal, and believe it or not, there was only one pair of sunglasses left. They must've been popular? I didn't know. They were black and generic enough, so I paid for them and headed back to the Ca.

I casually entered through the front door and instantly felt like a burglar as Helena spun around in her seat and shot me a surprised glance.

"Joseph, vight?" She forced a pinched smile. "Vhat brings you here?"

"Oh nothing," I sighed the words, shrugging for the unimportance effect. "I just had to grab some sunglasses for Nancy. She wanted me to leave them in her room."

"Ah." Helena nodded and went back to work. Apparently she didn't care who left random things in Nancy's bedroom.

I ditched the sunglasses on her bed, right next to the letter. The letter that I was too cowardly to sign. Maybe the connection of the sunglasses and the note would give her an implication of whom it was from. Not like she needed an implication. I mean, who else could it _possibly_ be from? She was a detective. She would absolutely get it.

Back in the lobby, I turned to Helena—who was writing in her notepad and ignoring my presence—and asked, "Do you know where Nancy is, by the way?"

She shrugged. "She vent out earlier. With her boyfriend."

Not gonna lie—that last word, however blatantly used, kicked me in the gut. "Boyfriend?" I repeated.

"Vell, I suppose I can't say zat for zertain, because she _did_ deny it on zeveral occasions." Helena smiled coyly and shrugged one shoulder. "But vhy else vould she spend _zo_ much time vith him?"

I pretended that she didn't just nail my heart to the wall and throw tomatoes at it. I nodded and said, "I, uh…I don't know. Thanks Helena." Then I left.

Learning information about the boyfriend wasn't helping me at all. I had to distract myself with something until Nancy read my letter and decided to come and talk to me. She knew where I was staying, and now it was up to me to just wait. As torturous as that idea sounded.

My plan was set, but it got slightly derailed. I was walking down the street from the Ca, and not ten yards away, I passed a dude who caught my attention. He was all dressed in black, not appearing very discreet (but hey, who was I to judge, right?) He was looking around way too much. Not in the dumbstruck touristy sense, but in the hopefully-no-one-is-watching sense. He was no tourist. I could just tell.

So I ducked into the nearest alleyway, pressing myself against the terra cotta wall and listening to his footsteps continue down the street. I closed my eyes and calculated how far he would be from the Ca entrance, based on my own pacing. _Four steps. Three, two, one…_

The footsteps stopped. I crept closer to the edge of the wall, catching a glimpse of the street. The guy had stopped right in front of the patio entrance, just as I'd anticipated. He glanced around, but I ducked before he saw me. More footsteps. They faded slightly, muffled by the walls of the patio. They stopped. They came again. Outside, in the street. Coming towards my hiding place. I tried to melt into the wall, tried not to breathe. He walked passed the alley. He didn't see me.

I waited a few seconds, making sure that he was out of sight before stepping out onto the street, making my way to the Ca entrance again and diving inside. On the table, he'd left a note. It was square and yellow and typewritten. A dull realization thudded into my heart as I picked it up and glanced at the chunk of text.

 ** _Samantha,_**

 ** _You are required to meet us tonight at Casa dei Giochi. Come right after sunset. We hold information that we feel you have the right to know. It is about time we all understand each other. Do not be late._**

I stared at the note, feeling myself swallow hard. The _A_ 'swere faded. That meant this note and the note from "Nancy" were actually both from the same person. They were both typed on the same machine.

My heart rate started picking up as the implications of this summons hit me and started to make sense. They wanted Nancy. They had figured out that she wasn't the real Samantha Quick, and now they were trying to catch her. They knew her well. There was no better way to catch Nancy Drew than to bait your hook with information. She was going to fall into their hands and they were going to dispose of her however they wanted to. But only if she found the note, and she wouldn't. Because immediately, it went into my back pocket.

I understood it almost perfectly—they wanted to catch Nancy in the act. Why did they want her to have new sunglasses? But why did they stage that note for me to go and buy her a new pair of sunglasses—sunglasses that looked just like her old ones? It seemed like such a minor detail. _Unless..._

It hit me.

 _Unless the glasses were bugged._

Now _that_ made perfect sense. That would explain why there was only one pair of glasses at the kiosk—because they were equipped with a tracking device. These people were smart—smarter than I was, at the moment. They'd hijacked Nancy's name in order for _me_ do their dirty work and cover their tracks for them. It was flipping brilliant.

I had to get the glasses back. So without even thinking about Helena Berg or a cover story, I burst into the Ca through the front door. Helena wasn't at her desk, thank God. Nobody was there, in fact. But I could hear high-heeled footsteps approaching, so I rushed into Nancy's bedroom and slammed the door shut behind me.

I didn't have much time. If Helena came in, I'd be such a dead idiot. So I grabbed the glasses and locked myself in the bathroom, sinking to the ground with my back pressed against the door. The shades appeared perfectly normal at first glance, but as I got a closer look, I noticed that the temples were uneven—one was just slightly thicker than the other.

Having no pocketknife, I looked around for something that could work in its place—a nail file on the edge of the sink. Its sharp end pried off the plastic casing of the sunglasses' left temple with ease, revealing the tiny microchip laid inside. It was a bug, I was positive. The reckless side of me wanted to pull it out and flush it down the toilet, but the strategizing side of me decided against it.

What would happen if the wearer of these sunglasses were to follow the directions on the latest note? What if they were to go to Casa dei Giochi right after sunset and take the sunglasses with them? What if that person was me? What would happen? I was absolutely not going to let Nancy go—not that I had control over what she did, but I _did_ have control over whether or not she saw the note. I couldn't let her risk her life. Because if anything happened to her, I just… I wouldn't be able to handle it.

Snapping the casing back on the glasses, I locked the bug inside and got to my feet. I felt like I was stepping up to the gallows in someone's stead. This was Nancy's war, but I was going to fight it. I had to. I headed for the balcony door, deciding that exiting through the lobby would be way too risky.

But I stopped short. I heard voices—familiar ones—just outside the bedroom door. They belong to Helena and Nancy. There were footsteps drawing closer and suddenly my heart was up in my throat, pumping.

 _No._

"Ah. Back already?" Helena asked.

"Yes, but…only for a little while…" came Nancy's muffled reply, which sounded louder as it undeniably approached the door.

I didn't have time to get to the balcony and out of sight. She was going to open the door in literally two seconds and catch me. I had to think fast. But that was the problem—I couldn't think. I just stood there, frozen to the carpet like an absolute idiot.

The doorknob turned.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: I'm glad that last chapter didn't feel rushed...haha yeah a lot happened there. :') Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this installment! _


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

 **Joe**

I lunged forward, grabbing the doorknob with both hands and using all my grip and muscle power to keep it from turning. I had to brace my back against the wardrobe and reinforced the door with my leg.

Nancy muttered and jiggled the doorknob. I could feel it rattling on the other side, but my hands kept it steady on the end that mattered. She groaned, obviously frustrated.

"Helena, did you lock this door?" she asked, trying not to sound annoyed. I knew that tone.

"No," came the muffled reply from the journalist who didn't care enough to leave her desk. "It vasn't locked a moment ago…"

"Well I've been gone for a couple of hours," she reasoned, trying the doorknob again. I tightened my grip. "Maybe you locked it without realizing."

Helena laughed. Muted. Annoyed. "I find zat very unlikely."

I could almost hear Nancy rolling her eyes. Yeah, through the door. Then I heard another voice—this one was intentionally stifled, slightly familiar, and belong to a guy. Probably the "boyfriend" that Helena had mentioned earlier. My hands involuntarily tightened around the knob.

"Can't you pick locks like this?"

He sounded lame. I wanted to punch him. For no reason. His voice was familiar. He was the guy I saw a few days ago. I'd heard him addressing Nancy as soon as I'd walked her back to the Ca and slipped out of sight.

"Yeah, but…that's kind of patronizing." Nancy whispered in reply.

"How so?" the boyfriend asked, sounding lamer than before.

Nancy didn't reply. Instead she just said, in a louder voice that didn't need to be concealed from Helena, "I'm going to go ask Margherita if she has a spare key for this room."

Footsteps. They drifted away from the door and I breathed a sigh of relief as my muscles let go of the tension.

 _That was way too freaking close._

Now was the time to get out of here—while Nancy was still gone. She would be back with Margherita in a few minutes, to find the door perfectly unlocked and probably tick Margherita off in the process. I didn't care, though. Nope, all I cared about was getting out of there. So I shoved open the balcony door and stepped onto the railing, launching myself up onto the highest roof again.

I headed for the front of the building, mapping out my next move. I would jump at the stair landing and get out of there, unnoticed by even our resident detective and journalist. All systems were go. But then I remembered the sunglasses in my pocket.

I needed a plan. I'd already decided that _I_ was going to be the one to follow that note and take the bugged shades with me, but I hadn't decided what to do about Nancy in the meantime. Keeping her out of the way meant keeping her from finding out. She couldn't know where I was going. It was impossible for me to keep her distracted. Unless I had someone do it for me.

A door opened, and then slammed shut. I felt my defenses jump to alert. The sound came from the altana below me. I crept to the edge of the roof and looked down, taking extra caution to not be seen, especially by the old lady, who had a perfect vantage point.

Nancy was the one who'd emerged from the door, and behind her trailed the guy I'd heard talking to her downstairs. I couldn't help but analyze him—from his white Nikes, to his varsity jacket, to his combed hair, to his squinted, dumbfounded expression, to the way he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking around at the potted plants like he didn't care about anything ever. I didn't like him.

By that point, I wasn't even listening to what Nancy was asking Margherita. I knew that she was requesting the key, I knew that Margherita wouldn't have it on her person and even if she did, I knew that she wouldn't give it to Nancy. I knew that she was going to ditch her tanning session for at least a few minutes and disappear through the doorway with Nancy. I knew that the boyfriend, having as much awkward body language as he did, wouldn't follow. I knew that he would stay up on the altana by himself and wait for Nancy to come back. He might even pretend to interest himself in the succulents. And when all that happened, I knew exactly what I had to do.

So I waited. I waited for the sound of Nancy's apologies to muffle themselves down the staircase and the slow-swinging door to sink shut. I glanced over the edge of the roof and found everything exactly as I'd anticipated—the boyfriend, standing there with his hands still in his pockets. He was even loitering near a wall. I almost laughed at how unbelievably easy this was going to be. But I didn't laugh. Because then he would've seen me and been all scared and that would've just killed my vibe.

Instead I threw myself over the edge of the roof and landed softly on the altana, right behind him. My reflexes were naturally faster than his. Before he even had the chance to turn around, I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and locked my other hand over his mouth, slamming him back into the terra cotta wall. He was freaked—and with good reason. I didn't even tear off my shades to lessen the creeper look. No, in fact, I purposely left them on. For aesthetics.

I braced one arm over his chest and pinned him hard against the wall. Not moving my hand. Getting a good long look at his face and deciding whether or not he'd be able to keep his mouth shut on his own.

"One word and you die." I whispered, just to scare the crap out of him. I then slipped my hand off his face, allowing one of the stupidest questions to come out.

"Who are you? A cop?"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "That was actually five words but I'll forgive you. No, I'm not a cop—were you expecting one to tackle you any minute now?"

"What? No—"

"Then listen up because I don't have much time," I threw a quick glance around the altana, then focused back on the boyfriend, who was almost squirming under my grip on his shirt collar. "Nancy's in trouble."

"What do you mean?" He looked genuinely concerned. Sort of giving me the urge to punch him again.

"I mean, she was supposed to go somewhere tonight—somewhere that's not safe. The bad guys in this case she's working on—they're going to try and capture her. Kill her. You understand?"

He nodded quickly, eyes wide.

"But I'm not going to let that happen. I've taken her tracking device and I'm going in her place. But Nancy can't know _anything_ about this, you got that? Not _one single thing._ If she learns about what I'm going to do, if _you tell her_ —" I nailed him harder against the wall. "She _will_ die. And it will be all your fault."

He looked scared. _Good._

"That means you're going to have to keep her out of the way," I explained, keeping my voice low. "That means you're going to have to take her out tonight—to dinner or something—and keep her out for as long as you possibly can. Keep her distracted. Understand?"

He nodded again. With a little more intent this time.

"Good." I sighed out the rest of my breath, not realizing how it was getting caught inside. I took one hand away, but still kept him pinned at arms' length. "Remember—if she follows me, she dies. If you tell her, _you_ die."

Footsteps. Two sets. I heard them on the stairs, muffled by the door, which was still shut but wouldn't be for long. I dropped my hold on him altogether, taking a few quick back-steps to get to the edge of the altana.

The boyfriend just looked at me like I was a ghost about to vanish into thin air. I wasn't quite the former, but I was the latter. Nancy swung open the door, but I'd already jumped off the roof and landed on the street below. I was already out of there. Out of sight.

* * *

I'd found myself in life-or-death situations before. Lots of times, in fact. But they were always unexpected. Sometimes I could sense trouble stirring in the air like a future storm, but those times were rare. It was usually a surprise attack—someone would pull a knife, or a gun, or a bomb would explode, or Frank and I would get knocked out and tied up, or all of the above. I actually liked it that way, believe it or not. I was better at thinking on my feet. Strategizing wasn't really my forte. My reflexes were usually better than my plans.

But that night, I had to make a plan. I was going to take the sunglasses and leave at sunset. I was going to walk to Casa dei Giochi (because if anything weird was going to happen, I was seriously doubting that it would occur on a gondola.) If I arrived safely at Campo Santa Margherita, then I would walk into the club. If _still_ nothing weird happened, I would…probably…well I didn't know what I would do. I could punch somebody in the face and run away. That usually worked for a diversion. (It was also a diversion that Frank highly disapproved of. But, flying solo like I was, I could totally get away with it.)

So there. I had a plan. Although I kind of formulated it while I was walking to Casa dei Giochi and I kind of hadn't run through every eventuality—but heck, it didn't matter. One of two things could happen—I could either die, or I could make it out alive. I was dearly hoping that it would be the latter.

The temperature was dropping with the sun, making everyone run for the hills (or at least their little Italian houses, which looked incredibly inviting just then. All I wanted to do was knock on someone's door and be like, "Can I come in and have dinner with you, instead of going off to die by the gun of a smuggler thief person somewhere?" But I couldn't.)

I was halfway there. The streets were familiar, but starting to look strange in the dark. I saw shadows out of my peripheral that didn't exist. I heard footsteps on side streets that were merely echoes of my own. I tried to work the tension out of my shoulders. I neared the narrow opening to a back alley. I reached up to pull the shades off my face. Then a hand grabbed me and locked over my mouth.

My back slammed into the wall, emptying the air from my lungs in one blow. But that wasn't enough, apparently, because the guy who'd grabbed me decided to slug me in the stomach while I was pinned there. I was ready for it, and almost didn't feel a thing. I let him think that I was out for a second, faking a pained double-over, and then snapping back up to punch him in the face.

He cursed, and with those precious three seconds, I got my bearings. I was in a u-shaped alley behind a small square building. The guy who'd grabbed me had managed to drag me pretty deep into the shadows, where no one from the street would be able to see us. But he wasn't the only one. There were two others—one of them masked, the other wearing street clothes and a hood. I was hoping the masked guy would be next—he was totally scrawny-looking. But the long trench coat and fedora implied no brawling on the ground.

The hooded guy lunged, but I ducked out of the way. I tried to turn around and see where I'd left him, but then two hands latched onto my arms and threw me against the wall. It was stucco. I felt it slice into my face like cat scratches. My vision blurred, but I could see a shadow coming on my left. It was the first guy—he was kind of small, but fast. He was going to attack me at the knees, kicking me to the ground. I threw myself backwards before it could happen—sending the hoody dude staggering back as well.

The first guy saw what I did there and jumped to plan b, which was tackling me to the ground. He was fast, but I was faster. I threw a kick and jumped out of the way. He didn't go all the way down, but just kind of stumbled and gripped his ribs for a second. Then the hooded guy slammed me into the wall again. My head made contact a little too hard. I could hear a faint ringing in my ears and the backs of my eyes ached.

Two hands were pressing down on my shoulders, holding me against the wall. _Come on,_ a voice inside me groaned, _get with it._ He was waiting. So was the other guy—the fast one who was still recovering from my well-aimed kick. They didn't have to wait for long. I launched myself forward, smashing through their barricade in a total rebel ATAC move that neither one of them saw coming. I was free for about two seconds, and had to decide which way to run. The masked dude with the fedora was still standing exactly where I'd last seen him—near the entrance to the alley. _Why the heck isn't he helping take me down?_ I didn't have time to think about it.

There was another exit to this alley on the other side of the building we were behind—I'd seen it from the street. So while everyone was diverted, I ran for it. The corner was sharp, and right beyond that, where I'd anticipated a beautiful wide opening delivering me into the arms of the street, there was a gate. A tall, metal gate with razor ribbon winding the top.

I cursed under my breath, feeling my patience give out. Climbing it was my only option. I latched onto the cold metal ribs of the gate, grappling for some kind of grip with my Conversed feet. I failed to find it. I slipped. A hand grabbed my ankle and dragged me down. It was the hooded guy again. Man, he was on top of his game.

He kneed me in the side, just when I wasn't expecting it, leaving an ache in my ribs and no air in my lungs. In my moment of weakness, he slammed me against the wall once more. This time his hands were chaining my wrists over my head. My vision was blurry and the darkness was disorienting, but in that split second, I got a glimpse of his face. He was the guy I'd seen earlier, leaving notes at the Ca.

"Fausto!" the other guy shouted, not ten feet away.

My captor glanced up at the sound of his name, freeing one of my wrists in time for him to catch the object being thrown to him. I couldn't see what it was in the settling dark. But I could feel what it was as it kissed my forehead—a circle of cold metal right between my eyes. The feeling was almost familiar. I was about to use my free hand to give him a well-deserved throat jab, but now that was out of the question. Because now I had a gun to my head.

"Move one muscle and your brain is a bullet-case, my friend," he whispered, a satisfied smile finding his face.

I exhaled, feeling my heartbeat finally starting to calm down. I was forcing it. I had to think. I had to focus. I had to get out somehow. Even in the dark, I could see something drawn on the barrel of the gun—a number 6. The cuts on my right cheek were deeper than I'd first anticipated. I could feel where an important vein had been torn and was now pulsing out blood, dampening my skin.

I could see the first guy out of my peripheral, watching this like it was a silent comedy. I wanted to get a better look at him. I wanted to see if I could identify him. But I didn't want my brain to be a bullet-case. So I didn't move.

He glanced down the alley, where the fedora dude must've still been standing. Then he nodded and turned to Fausto, taking one step closer.

"Remember your orders." He said. Slight French accent.

 _Dang, could he actually be—_

"I know, Nico." Fausto answered my question for me.

" _Don't_ use my name." Nico hissed. "Not here."

Fausto turned back to me, his brow lowering slightly and the sick breed of smile returning. "Don't worry," he said in a low, raspy voice that was unmistakable. "I'm not gonna kill you. I already promised someone else the honor."

A tight swallow slipped down my throat and out of my peripheral vision I could see someone turn the corner and come into better view. Fausto glanced over at the fedora dude, who was standing in the dark, a complete silhouette. I struggled to make out a face, but everything was shades of foggy blue and almost-black. Then fedora dude took off his fedora—and I suddenly realized that _he_ was actually a _she_ , as volumes of black hair tumbled down around her shoulders.

"Well said, Fausto." She nodded slowly, not moving an inch farther.

American accent. It was familiar, like in a dream. I remembered it. _Gina._ She gave me one more opportunity to hear her voice. Two words.

"Let's go."

Those two words were apparently a cue to knock me out. Fausto grabbed my shoulders and whiplashed my head into the wall. I heard the contact echo through my skull. A pain shot through my eyes, tearing, screaming, letting go of consciousness. Then came the distant ringing in my ears. Familiar. Numbing.

I was out.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: We're finally getting into the exciting stuff! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and thank you so much for reading as always! :)_


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

 **Nancy**

"So," That two-letter word was Ned's preferred method of starting a conversation. "How did you find this place?"

I shrugged one shoulder, somewhat distracted by the small basket of fried food before my face. "I don't know. I just kind of…stumbled upon it. While investigating."

"Yeah?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

There was a pause, where the thirty-eight-inch flat screen television mounted on the wall at an unpleasant proximity to our seats perfectly substituted the need for conversation. The broadcast was, unfortunately enough, a football game. And seventy-five percent of Ned's attention was focused on it. I knew we shouldn't have sat at the bar.

I wasn't planning on going out to dinner that evening—in fact, I was a bit surprised by how eagerly Ned invited me. I couldn't possibly decline an invitation so endearingly extended. As I went to get ready, I found a letter on my bed.

It was a sealed, white envelope and inside there was a single sheet of copy paper. It was printed from a computer, in a generic font. I read it alone, standing in my room with my eyes trained intensely on the paper.

 ** _Nancy,_** it said.

 ** _I wish I knew how to tell you this. I wish I could write it in this letter. But to be honest, it's taken me an hour to even write this first sentence. There isn't a right or wrong way to say it – there's just one way to say it. But I have to say it to your face. I can't be a coward. Not this time._**

 ** _Being the mastermind that you are, I'd be shocked if you haven't already figured this out. I feel like you can read me like a book, you can unlock me, pull me apart, take whatever you want. But still, I have to tell you everything. Tonight. No sooner, no later._**

That's where the letter ended. And it left me absolutely reeling. Emptying my lungs of oxygen as I sank down onto my bed. I lifted my gaze to the sunlight drifting in through the window, igniting the dust particles hovering in the air like forms of magic. I watched them and breathed and wondered whom the letter was from.

Ned was the obvious answer. That realization made my heart sink into my gut. The only important thing Ned could have to tell me was that he wanted a more serious relationship with me. How could I ever tell him that the feeling was _not_ mutual? Ned couldhave meant something else by the contents of the letter, but I would have been surprised by an explanation far outside my intuitive parameters.

I suddenly understood everything— _that_ was why he had invited me to dinner. That's why he seemed so nervous. Because he wanted a response to the letter. And now was the time to give it. Now. I had to woman up and just give him the full and honest truth. It wouldn't— _couldn't_ —happen any other way. So I got ready that evening and let him take me out to dinner.

He didn't know Venice, so I had to pick the location. Having not spent much time acting like a tourist, I hadn't had the privilege to find many good restaurants. So remembering that Club Micio had a casual grill sort of atmosphere, I chose that. I shouldn't have, really. Because it wasn't quite the setting for a serious discussion. But Ned seemed satisfied enough.

"So," he tried again to start a conversation, peeling his attention off the TV and offering a small smile in compensation. "What are you thinking about?"

He didn't want to know what I was thinking about. So instead of being earnest, I bluffed with an equally-distracted smile, picking up one of the skinny French fries in my plate.

"Nothing much," I said.

"Oh come on," he laughed, reaching for the bottle of Coke in front of him. "You're always thinking way too much _._ "

I felt my brow lower slightly. Why was he acting so strange? He was evidently nervous about _something_ , but yet he seemed to be ignoring it. If he really wanted to talk about the letter he'd left in my room, then why hadn't he brought up the topic yet? Was he expecting _me_ to bring up the topic?

Our gazes both diverted in opposite directions—his to the football game, and mine to the dancefloor, which was empty and reflecting various colors from the spotlights overhead. The techno music was pumping, as if for dancers that were invisible to the human eye.

Was he really expecting _me_ to bring it up? How? I didn't know where to start. I didn't know how to break the disappointing news. He sounded so very desperate in the letter.

 _This isn't going to be easy._

"Ned," I turned to face him.

He looked up. "Yeah?"

I took a deep breath, preparing for a sentence that never came. Instead most of it was sighed back out on my exhale. "To be honest, Ned, I've been thinking about what _you've_ been thinking about."

He shot me a confused look, leaning one elbow against the bar. "What _I've_ been thinking about?"

He wasn't sure what I meant yet. _Right_. I had to be clear. I had to jump in and just say it. I had to stop tiptoeing around the proverbial tulips.

"I'm sorry Ned, but if this is about our relationship, my response is…I don't." I shook my head, letting my eyes shut for a split second. "I really don't want to get involved. I wish I could soften the blow somehow, but…I don't know how. I wish you hadn't gotten so close to me. I just…I can't see you as anything more than a friend. I'm sorry to disappoint you."

As genuine as my tone was, he still looked confused. He looked shocked, in fact—staring at me with his eyebrows still together in the middle of his forehead.

"Nancy, what are you talking about?"

I felt my eyes widen slightly. "The letter. The one you left on my bed. You said you had something important you want to talk about—"

"I didn't leave you a letter." Ned laughed a little, under his breath. "And I…don't see you as anything more than a friend either, so…it's all good."

"What?" the word slipped out in a whisper. And then reality hit me, uppercutting my heart and leaving me reeling inside.

There was only one other person the letter could be from. His face was an image the previous night had burned into my subconscious. The words from the note were fresh in my mind. Now I could hear a different voice reciting those lines as they resonated in my heart like soundwaves. _I feel like you can read me like a book, you can unlock me, pull me apart, take whatever you want._ Of course it was him. How could I have been so blind?

My left hand flew to my mouth, fingertips hovering near my lips as if to conceal the words that whispered their way out like sweet incense. "It was Joe…"

Ned, having only caught a fragment, looked confused. "What did you say? It was a joke?"

I shook my head. Barely. Numbly.

 _But still, I have to tell you everything. Tonight._

My brain couldn't process much beyond that for a few moments. It was like the calm before the storm. My heart was a time bomb of butterflies. I could hear it counting down the last few seconds. And then it exploded.

"I have to go," I said, completely forgetting about dinner. I spun around on the bar stool and stood up. "I'm sorry, I just…I have to go."

"Wait, Nancy—" Ned stopped me with his words, and then his hand, which latched around my elbow as a second measure. "Where do you have to go?"

"I just…" _Right words, where are you?_ "I…promised a friend that I would meet him. He has…something he needs to tell me. It can't wait." And then I shook my arm free from his grasp, which had loosened enough to slip out of.

"Wait," he said, obviously not knowing how much that one little word annoyed me just then. "Who are you going to meet?"

"You…don't know him. And besides, it's not important." I shook my head, starting for the exit of the club.

It might have been a little disrespectful to completely ditch Ned like this, but I didn't have any time to lose. It was already getting late and Joe was probably in total agony, waiting for me. How could I have been so stupid? My heart was skipping beats all over the place, not playing by the rules.

Ned's footsteps chased me to the door. Then his hand closed down on my shoulder. Tense. "It might be important, Nancy." He said, urgency screaming through his wide hazel eyes. "It might be _very_ important."

"What?" the word escaped in a whisper at first, then returned with more strength. "What are you talking about?"

His gaze fell from mine to the floor. His hand left my shoulder. Desperation morphed into defeat, all in an instant response to my question.

"Ned."

He shook his head. "You can't ask me about it, Nancy. I can't…tell you."

"You have to," I said, feeling my heart on a collision course with my feet. "You have to tell me right now."

"No," Ned refused, meeting my eyes again. "You have to tell _me_ something. Who do you have to meet?"

It was no use concealing his name—not anymore. Not when I could sense a hurricane about to hit.

"Joe." I said. "Joe Hardy. Did you see him? Did you talk to him?"

Ned blew out an exhale, reaching up to nervously rub the back of his neck. "I-I don't know. I talked to someone. He said he knew you."

"What did he look like? Blonde hair, blue eyes, probably Converse, maybe a hoodie?" I didn't even know how to describe him in the moment. My heart was picking up the pace.

Ned nodded quickly. "Yeah, that was him."

"And what did he say? Ned—"

"He said I couldn't tell you! He said that I would die if I told you. That _you_ would die if you went after him. He told me to keep you distracted for as long as I could, and that's why—"

"Ned." I grounded my voice, trying to not lose control of my temper and my heartbeat, which were both at the breaking point. "Ned, you have to tell me. Where is he?" I emphasized those last three words, pronouncing them slowly and clearly so there would be no mistaking the level of my seriousness.

Ned swallowed, avoiding my eyes for as long as he possibly could, then relenting. "He said you were being tracked. He said someone wanted to capture you and kill you, but he was taking your tracking device and going in your place."

"What?" the word broke on its way out—a mere whisper. You couldn't have sank my heart deeper with a millstone. _He was going in my place._

"Nancy, I know what you're thinking, but you can't." Ned put one hand on my shoulder. "You can't go after him. You have to let the police handle this one. It's too dangerous."

"How do _you_ know what's dangerous?" I nearly blew up at him, flinging his hand off my body. "You _knew_ he was doing this and you just let him go without even _telling_ me?" I was aware that my voice was too loud, but I didn't care.

"Nancy—"

"Don't 'Nancy' me, okay?!" My voice was tight in my throat. My heart didn't know what to do with itself. One hand went up to my forehead and I pressed my fingertips there.

Ned gave me a look, as if determining whether or not I was about to explode. "I'm going to pay the bill, and we can talk about this on the way back, okay?"

I nodded stiffly.

"Don't leave without me, okay?"

"Okay," I almost growled the word, getting impatient.

Ned turned and wove back through the tables to get to the bar, where I could hear his muffled voice uttering apologies and paying the bill for dinner. I waited by the door with my pulse in my throat and my head in one hand.

My mind, in this absent and fevered state, started to dig back through mine and Joe's previous conversations. What was the last thing we'd talked about? What was the last thing I'd heard him say? It was the night before, when we went out for coffee and he told me about Iola. It was when we were parting ways. He'd always say, "See you later." But last night, he'd said, "Goodbye."

As I was standing in the low-lit shadows of the club with my hand hovering near the exit door, I felt something. It was like something inside of me died. Not part of me, but part of someone else. I felt it, deep down in my chest somewhere.

"Are you ready?" Ned asked, slipping passed me to open the door.

I nodded slowly, feeling a numbness blanketing my fevered emotions—like I'd slept on my heart the wrong way. I followed Ned outside and slipped into the cab after him. We started heading back to the Ca Nascosta.

"Nancy," he began, turning to face me. "I know you're upset about this, but the last thing you want to do is make a bad decision…just because you're upset."

"I don't make bad decisions," I said coldly, stifling my emotions for the present. "And I'm not upset. I'm just shocked that you didn't tell me."

Ned groaned. "Look Nancy, I'm sorry. I didn't even think about the crime-busting end of it, or whatever. All I wanted to do was keep you safe, okay?"

"And you wanted to keep _yourself_ safe, I presume. Seeing as he threatened you. With death."

Ned shrugged.

I scoffed, trying to hold it all in. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, I wanted to kick something (or someone.) I wanted to just jump out of that cab and run through the streets of Venice until I found him. _How could he have been so…_

Then it hit me. I suddenly understood exactly why he went.

"Nancy, my point is this." Ned took a breath to unload his intent, but I was barely listening. And the more he talked, the further his voice faded from my attention. "I really think you should call Sophia and let them handle this. They have more experience and they'll know…"

 _He went because he felt guilty. He felt like he deserved to die._

It made perfect sense. It was a rock that found my stomach. His words from the night before were just as fresh as if they'd been timestamped only a moment ago. _"T_ _hey're not going to miss next time. And I'm not going to let anyone else die in my place."_

"Nancy?" Ned's voice released me from my thoughts.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't reply. It was like my senses were suddenly lost under a blanket of fog. The cab had stopped on the street of the Ca, and it was time to get out.

"Nancy," he said again, this time gently touching my arm. "Are you okay?"

I snapped back into reality. Opened the cab door with a helpful nudge from my foot and stepped outside.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

I wasn't fine. My head was spinning, and my heart was back to beating loud and hard. Implications were flooding into my mind along with a thousand other thoughts, becoming a tidal wave I couldn't hold back. I had to get away from Ned. I had to focus. To make the right decision.

"Are you going to call Sophia?"

I nodded. Lying.

"Maybe I should come with you—"

"No, Ned. Really." I raked my hands through my hair. "I'm perfectly capable of making a phone call on my own."

Ned gave me a distrustful sidelong glance. "As long as you _do_ make the phone call…"

I gritted my teeth. "Would you please _stop_ treating me like a child?" I quickly turned away and started down the street towards the Ca, feeling the distance pass under my feet in no time at all.

Now that I was alone, I felt like I could finally think. I ran through every bit of information that I'd learned from Ned, decrypting it in my mind as I let myself into the Ca through the front door.

 _Joe said that I was going to be captured. That means the crime ring must have sent me some kind of a message or letter that Joe found and decided to conceal. He also found a tracking device meant for me, and took it. But where did he go?_ Having never seen the message from the crime ring, I had no inkling of where Joe had gone to fulfill their arrangements.

The lobby of the Ca was empty, and almost dark. One lamp in the corner was illuminated, casting wide shadows across the walls and ceiling. It was eerily quiet, and I wondered for a moment where Helena had gone. She wasn't in our room, which I found pitch black as I eased open the door.

Before I could venture any farther, a sudden thought struck me. _If Joe went in my place, and they captured him instead…then they know. They know that he took the tracking device. They know that I didn't come. But they won't be satisfied with Joe in my place. They still want me._

I felt a swallow slip tightly down my throat as I eased the bedroom door shut behind me. Those four words repeated themselves, not having sank far enough the first time. _They still want me. They still want me. They still want me._

There was something unsettling about the emptiness of the room. I had to turn on the night stand lamp beside my bed. I listened to my own uneasy breathing as I climbed over the mattress and reached for the switch on the light. But I never found it.

Something latched around my wrist—a strong, damp hand—and closed down like a vise. Whoever was hiding in the shadows locked his other hand over my mouth. I tried to scream, I tried to writhe my way out of his hold, kick him, punch him, do anything. But all my efforts were futile and he was suddenly on top of me, pinning me down on the bed.

I could only see shadows in the blanketing darkness, no face. His hands smelled of ash and he was breathing hard. Then he let go of my wrist and reached for something at his belt. I tried to hit him with my free hand, but he was quicker in defense. Whatever he had grabbed was sharp as a needle—a needle that sank into the side of my neck and plunged achy, cold liquid into my bloodstream.

I barely even felt the needle pull back out of my skin. All I could feel was the swelling pain that wrapped my throat and dissolved my screams into silence. An exhale fell into his hand. And then everything started to fade. But before I completely lost my consciousness, I heard him whisper something into my left ear. French accent.

"Well, Samantha Quick, I almost didn't recognize you. What happened to your dress?"

* * *

 _Notes: Thank you for reading! :)_


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

 **Joe**

Pins and needles shot through my right arm. I flexed my fingers and they were numb. Numb and needley. Sandwiched together and pressed against faux leather. _Ouch._ I felt like I was drugged or drunk or both. My head was thick and swimming with slight nausea, which intensified every time my body jolted with a sudden movement. All I wanted to do was stop moving. Stop moving and sleep. But I was in a car, and a seatbelt buckle was happily embedding itself in my right tricep, severing my circulation.

That's when I realized that my hands were tied together—or more specifically, _zip tied_ together. The strip of thin plastic bit into my wrists. I checked my ankles by carefully shifting my feet. They were free. I guess those jerks who tied me up didn't expect much of a fight. But that one guy—Fausto— _had_ clocked me pretty good. I sure as hell didn't feel like fighting. I felt more like throwing up. I had to stay awake. I had to _force myself_ to stay awake.

There were soft voices, coming from the front seats of the car. I just happened to be facing the opposite direction. I attempted to listen and shift my arm away from the seatbelt buckle at the same time.

"Check him." The female voice said. She was in the driver's seat. I could tell.

The passenger turned to throw me a glance. I could feel that, too. And I froze. Gazes were something I could sense ninety percent of the time. So I knew when he returned his to the windshield.

"He's fine." Fausto. I knew his voice now—it had this trademarked rasp.

There was a moment of quiet. The car jerked slightly, and I took the opportunity to disguise my movements as I shifted my arm again—this time getting a touch of feeling back into my right hand. I needed to know where my fingers were.

"Are you sure this is safe, Gina?" Fausto asked, sounding more precautionary than scared.

"Why wouldn't it be safe?"

I flexed my fingers again. Fausto sighed.

"Because. Zattare is…a sensitive location." He replied.

"A sensitive location?" Gina scoffed. "If by 'sensitive' you mean that the police are aware of suspicious behavior occurring there, you're wrong. They're not aware of it."

The directional clicked on. We then turned left and jolted to a sudden halt. The force of it launched me backwards and off the seat. Unable to do anything but act totally unconscious, I had to bite my tongue as my body hit the floor and my head pounded again. At least I could feel everything.

Fausto tore around in his seat, obviously hearing the commotion.

"Is he still out?" Gina asked.

Fausto laughed slightly, under his breath. "Very out."

 _Not quite, bro._

I couldn't help but smile slightly, despite the ringing in my head, the numbness in my arm, and the fact that I was tied up in a car awaiting my execution. Then I opened my eyes, and found that I was still facing the back of the car—but now on the floor, I was facing the space underneath the backseat. Where there just so happened to be a revolver. Staring me in the face.

 _Well hello, beautiful_.

It was the same gun that Fausto had pressed to my head not long ago. I could tell because of the number 6 drawn on the side of the barrel. But whose gun was it? That mattered. I tried to wade past the fog of my blackout, back to the alley where I had my back against the wall.

Fausto had been holding me down, but he needed backup. Nico had looked back to Gina, who hadn't moved from her incognito hiding place. Then suddenly he had a gun, which he'd thrown to Fausto. But where did Nico get the gun? He couldn't have had it on his person the whole time, or else there would be no point in fighting me. That's when I understood—the number six gun must have been Gina's.

Which led to another realization. She was the one who wanted to execute me. She'd said it herself, back in the alley. When Fausto told me that he'd already promised someone else the honor of killing me—that's when Gina stepped forward and was all like, "Well said." She had a plan.

"What I meant to say, was—"

Gina cut Fausto off with that cold, matter-of-fact tone of hers. "I know what you meant to say. You meant to say that it's dangerous, going to Zattare. Not because of patrols, but for…other reasons."

"What other reasons?"

There was a pause. I shifted slightly, tensing my left shoulder to carefully edge my fingers under the hem of my jacket and drag it closer to my reach. I moved slowly, praying that Fausto wouldn't notice.

"Il Dottore's safe and secure store," Gina replied.

I froze for a second. _What were they saying?_

"Exactly," Fausto sounded incredulous.

"And what is your point?"

I found the zipper of my inner pocket and pulled. Slowly and noiselessly. The earplug bullets were all there, where I'd left them after loading practice in my room that one morning.

"My point is, I think it's kind of stupid to execute someone in a warehouse." Fausto laughed sarcastically. "The same warehouse that's being used to cover our tracks on _other_ illegal measures."

 _What? We're going to Il Dottore's safe and secure store? And it's the warehouse? The warehouse at Zattare? How come no one figured this out before?_

I couldn't consider all the implications. Right now, I had to focus on the sleight of hand that I was attempting to execute with zip-tied wrists. It was a healthy challenge. It would have been fun if my head wasn't splitting in two.

"Whatever," Gina said, almost in reply to my thoughts. Her air of absolute "screw off" was a thing to behold.

I managed to close my fingers around the revolver. It was mine, bro. I had such a good grip on that gun, I actually could've spun around and started shooting things. But I had to be smart. My life depended on it.

All those obnoxious practice sessions of loading in and loading out actually paid off. Even with tied hands, I was able to dump all those pretty little bullets out of Gina's revolver and seal them up in my inner pocket—replacing them with my earplug bullets. The metamorphosis took eight seconds (double my normal time for loading, but the situation was not normal) and that number 6 wasn't looking so deadly anymore.

"It's not as dangerous as you think," Gina continued, just as I was zipping my pocket back up and nudging the revolver under the seat where I'd found it. "Il Dottore has given me full access to the safe and secure store. I may come and go as I please."

Fausto scoffed. "That so?"

"That _is_ so." Gina shot back, sounding unamused. "And now you'll do me a favor by saying no more."

Fausto followed her orders without question. I carefully slid my hands back to my side, undetected. I felt the car slow, then turn. We were going up a slight incline, which made everything under the backseat of the car shift slightly. I saw the revolver slide deeper into the shadows. Then the shelter of a building plunged the interior of the car into darkness.

Faint glimpses of fluorescent light ebbed past the windows and breathed over the black seats. I watched through barely-opened eyes, counting the number of lights we passed. _One, two, three, four, five._ Then came an interval of darkness. Then the lights again. _One, two, three, four, five._ The car stopped. Turned around. Moved forward. _One, two, three_. We stopped again. Then Gina killed the engine.

"This is close enough," she said. "Nico should be arriving any minute."

Suddenly, I noticed something. Something on the floor of the car near my hand. It was cold and round and metal—a bullet that missed my pocket. _Dang it._ I couldn't unzip my inner pocket in time, and I couldn't risk Gina finding it and thinking that something was up. I had to just hold onto it, in the most literal sense of the phrase.

The driver's door opened. The passenger door opened. Slam. Slam. I closed my eyes and waited for it—the rush of florescent light that washed in as Fausto yanked open the backseat door. He just watched me for a second, and I forced myself to not move, barely even breathe. Then he scoffed, reached in and grabbed me by the shoulders, dragging me out of the car and dumping me on the ground.

I let myself start to come to, getting a little annoyed with how many things my head was smashing into. Consciousness clichély returned to me with an innocent groan and neck roll—and, of course, confused eyebrows.

"Good, he's waking up," I heard Fausto mutter, more to himself than to Gina. "Now I won't have to drag him."

Gina didn't respond, and when I opened my eyes to adjust to the light, I glimpsed her out of my peripheral, reaching under the backseat of the car. She grabbed two guns, and threw one of them to Fausto. I tried to see if it was the one I'd reloaded on the ride, but there wasn't much time to study it before he flipped it out of my vision and pressed it against my back.

"Get up."

I was already on my knees and didn't need to be told twice. The end of the gun barrel burned a brand of tension into my spine, right between my shoulder blades. If Fausto had fired that gun, it would've been right on target with the crosshairs tattooed on my back.

Gina led the way, cutting in front of us and rounding the corner of stacked boxes. We were in a huge warehouse room, and it was packed with wooden crates and boxes. I couldn't help but notice, as I swept my still-foggy gaze across the room, that it was set up like a giant maze.

This had to be Il Dottore's storage. Gina said so herself, in the car. But how many of these crates contained stolen art? I wanted to get a better look at everything, but when I'd turn my head even slightly, I'd get a threatening jab from Fausto's gun. He obviously didn't condone enjoying the scenery. I had to figure out where the emergency exit was. Unfortunately, there were no handy little signs.

"This way," Fausto muttered, elbowing me to take a left where I'd seen Gina vanish a moment prior.

It was a small inner room, divided from the rest of the space by metal walls. The floor was tile and the entrance doorway—which also seemed to be the only way out—was rigged on either side with laser sockets. It must've required higher security than a simple door. I slowed my pace as I entered the room, feeling my heart drop to my Converse as the sensation of nausea still dug into the back of my pounding head.

Fausto didn't stop like I did—instead he kept shoving me onward, trying to bayonet my back with the end of his gun, until I was shoved up against the back wall and unable to go any farther.

"That's enough," Gina said, signaling her minion to quit playing with her captive mouse.

He stepped away, leaving me against the wall. I pulled in a deep breath and turned around fully to face Gina, who was now blocking the door—the only way out. I'd never seen her up close or in the light before—I'd only caught glimpses, flashes, whispers, features severed in half by the sharp edge of a shadow. But now I saw her.

She was beautiful. Tall, serious, artful, poised. She was still wearing the trench coat from before, but beneath that was a tight black top and leggings of the same color. She was like a goddess from an old painting, the kind that was depicted with the severed head of a saint under her hand. In reality, though, all that her fingers grasped was the number 6 gun—the revolver I'd loaded with fake bullets. I drew my gaze back up to hers, which was probing and dark and ranged better than a pistol ready to fire.

"Joseph Hardy," she said, red lips curving into a smile. "We meet at last."

The words were somehow haunting. Like a whisper of something from my long-term memory.

"Gina?"

She tilted her head slightly to one side, as if deciding whether or not she liked the sound of that name. "Correct, but…you might know me better by a different name." She started pacing to the side of the room, still clutching the gun in her right hand. Her gaze was trained on the floor, then it snapped back up to mine. "Samantha Quick."

The name was like a bullet to my chest. _How is that possible?_ I felt my brow lower slightly and I started to shake my head.

"It's true. And _so easy._ " She shrugged one shoulder, keeping her eyes locked on mine as she paced back across the room. "You'd be surprised if you knew how many people are fooled by a fake identity. Not just strangers, but friends. As close a friend as I can have doesn't even know that I am Samantha Quick. I only trust people with zippers on their mouths. Like Fausto." She nodded towards the guy who'd knocked me out. He was still standing by, in the corner of the room. "And Nico."

The mention of his name triggered something inside of me. I knew I had to talk, I had to bleed out all the information I could, but I didn't know my golden opportunity would be arriving so soon. I waited until Gina had diverted her gaze and continued pacing. Then I asked.

"How did you do it?"

She seemed a little confused by the question. Her voice was bathed in satire. "I'm sorry, what topic are we on?"

"Nico." I said softly. "How did you get Nico out of prison?"

"Why do you want to know?"

I felt a swallow slip tightly down my throat. "Because I'm going to die in a minute. And I'm curious."

Gina had to think about it for a few seconds—a long few seconds that bumped up my heart rate even though there was nothing to be nervous about. My fingers tightened, contracting around the bullet in my hand. It was starting to warm up.

"Joseph, have you ever heard that lovely old adage about the unfortunate cat?"

Questions with questions. I didn't like where this was going. But I replied anyway. "Of course."

"Well then. You know what happens to the curious among us."

"Yeah. I do." I said, pressing the bullet to my palm. "But it's not death. That 'lovely old adage' was actually something of a mantra, back when I was in training at my 'spy institute.' How I'd heard it said was like this: the cat didn't die of curiosity. Because curiosity, like anything else, is just an urge. An urge can't hurt us, unless it's acted upon. So the cat had two choices—do something stupid, or do something smart. He chose the stupid thing, because it was more gratifying. That's what killed him. So it's not about curiosity. It's about what we do with it."

She nodded slowly, almost in a mocking sense, even though she listened to every word. "I see. Now tell me: what category would this fall into? Knowingly walking into a trap, taking someone else's tracking device and following death bait to your own execution. What would you call that? Stupid? Or Smart?"

It was a test. A test that didn't matter. One I could've dismissed with no reply. But I couldn't hold the words inside of me. I couldn't stare into her knifing eyes any longer without saying something, without exploding with the truth that was beating on the inside of my chest like a prison wall.

"It's neither. It's not stupid or smart. It's love." Saying the word out loud was like falling on my own sword. I felt like a coward, I felt like a fighter, I felt like a killer. I felt like a mess. The bullet was getting warmer in my hand.

"Love?" Gina scoffed the word, taking a few steps closer. "That's no reason to give up your life."

"Of course it is."

" _Maybe_ it would be," she continued, lessening the space between us to only a few feet. "If you were saving someone else's life in the process. If your love for Nancy Drew spared her from death, then I can understand your decision. But you see, she won't be spared."

I swallowed, glancing from the gun to her face, which was somehow holding a calm expression—a hurricane prelude. She was biting it all back. The poison that made her forefinger twitch on the trigger of her revolver.

"Did you really think this was some kind of a sacrifice?" She asked, her voice one level above a whisper. "That I would be happy with you instead? Well it doesn't quite work that way. I get what I want, Joseph. And I want Nancy dead. So you see, your little act of love won't be preventing me from doing anything. You will have lost your life, and gained _nothing_."

I could barely feel anything, beyond the sensation of the bullet burning in my palm and my heart pounding at the back of my head. My gaze was on the floor, avoiding hers, which was threateningly close. But I couldn't let her have the last word—that's just how I was. So I found her eyes with mine again. They were dark, almost black. Waiting.

"Maybe that's the rational way to look at it," I said. "But Love isn't rational. It's crazy. It's something more than just ones and zeroes. It isn't science, it isn't math. And that's why you hate it—because you can't understand it. You can't strategize it. You hate anything that you can't put it in a box."

Gina laughed under her breath. "Not everything. For example, I hate you. But I'm still going to put you in a box." She nodded slowly, letting the implications of that burn sear in. "Ironic, how life works. Isn't it?"

Man, everything in my body was aching to sweep her legs out from underneath her and run. But Fausto was still standing there with a revolver—one that was loaded with _real_ bullets—and I didn't want to die. Not like that.

"I hope I'm getting cash for this job, Gina."

Her attention was yanked away from me, and back to the door behind her. The door where Nico now stood, holding captive the last person I wanted to see right then. She looked up, almost at the very instant her presence shot through me like a lightening bolt. Blue eyes.

My heart found the floor.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: Hey there! How's it going? :D Aw, don't worry at all! I've been crazy busy myself and not been very good at posting.. *nervous laughter* but this story is nearing the end, so I'm going to try and post often. Very true - Joe's plan was pretty flawed. *sigh* He's too impetuous for his own good. I hope you enjoy this update!_


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

 **Nancy**

"I hope I'm getting cash for this job, Gina."

My eyes suddenly flew open, finding a pair that were blue and wide and familiar. They shot me in the heart. They made my breath hesitate in my lungs. But they were alive. _He_ was alive.

At first he was shocked to see me, but then the light sank away from his gaze and the only thing left standing was a disappointment so potent I could almost taste it—like a sinking ship. Like it was all for nothing. I was here, standing before him, and we were both going to die.

"Whatever makes you happy, Nico," Gina laughed, flicking her revolver around in her hand, as if for the sole purpose of bringing it to my attention. "But remember, your apparition days are over. I should think you'd be happy with a mere crust. Especially from me."

Nico grunted and let go of my hands with more force than he'd taken hold of them, shoving me forward. I caught myself on the cold metal wall, noticing out of my peripheral vision how Joe flinched. My hands rested on the metal wall and I looked down, at the flooring beneath my feet. It was large white and pink tiles. I suddenly knew exactly where I was.

"I'll take that, Fausto." Nico said, stepping forward and freeing the gun from the hands of a tallish guy with dark hair.

 _Fausto?_ I was surprised at the mention of his name, and when I looked up I recognized that face. I remembered how he'd talked to me backstage at the Club Micio only a few nights prior.

I could barely breathe. My fingers felt cold and cramped against the metal. My gaze shot to Joe. His eyes were full of meaning, full of words unspoken. I felt empty, hollow, in shock. I wanted to scream. My throat was tight. How could this be happening?

There he stood before me. It was like our conversation the night before was transcribed on the walls around us, like he was the fulfillment of his own prophesy. I could still remember the way his skin felt under my fingertips—the crosshairs scarring his back. It was branding him, and not just between his shoulder blades where nobody could see—it was out on his face now, expressing itself in a look I'd only seen once before, when he told me that he wouldn't let anyone else die in his place.

I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to ignore the guns that would have willingly fired at me. I wanted to grab that boy by the shoulders and shove him against the wall and scream, "Why did you do this?" But I couldn't. Instead I had to swallow it all back and figure out a game plan.

Had Nico not revealed the identity of the tallish woman standing in the middle of the room, I would never have known that she was Gina. In my imaginings, I'd expected the illusive Scaramuccia to be a small, stealthy girl who was barely past twenty. But she turned out to be almost the opposite. Though she could boast the appearance of a professional spy, she was the most outward and obvious member of the entire crime ring I'd thus encountered. At least she was _now,_ as she held us captive in the storage warehouse, with no one to witness what was about to unfold.

Fausto had left the room with a brief order from Gina, which I'd missed in my fury of thought. Now Nico took his place at the door, guarding the only exit. I took my gaze back to Gina, who was studying me as if she hadn't had the opportunity to do so until now.

"I know," she said, almost sympathetically. "You have many questions. And it's only fair to answer someone's questions, isn't that right?"

Her gaze shifted to Joe, whose eyes hadn't deviated from the gun in her hand since she started talking. There he was, expecting it. Death. He could already see it happening.

"First and foremost, you want to know who I am." Gina said. "Scaramuccia, in charge of dead-drops and communication with Antonio Fango." She turned to face Joe, with a particular look glinting in her dark eyes. "Samantha Quick, in charge of deception and discretion…"

My gaze snapped to hers, just as she turned to face me—only for the purpose of drilling this information in through my eyes. Hers flashed with something sinister as a slow smile came to rest on her lips.

"And Il Dottore. In charge of everything." She finished, looking satisfied with my reaction.

"What?" I heard the word escape me in an exhale.

"You look surprised, Nancy Drew," Gina laughed under her breath, slowly approaching me. "Did you never expect it?"

I felt my jaw tense slightly, as I decided that I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of a reply. Instead I just squared my shoulders and answered with a question.

"Who else knows that you are Il Dottore?"

"Very few people, actually." Gina said, stopping two feet in front of me. "People who either have their lives in my hands," her gaze switched to Nico for a moment. "Or people whose lives I am about to dispose of."

I felt my heart shimmying back up into my throat, bringing the familiar taste of bitter disgust. "Dispose of?" I reiterated the words, though I needed no confirmation of them.

Gina nodded anyway. "Like paper to a shredder."

I had no idea what the expression on my face looked like, until Gina exhaled a quiet laugh in reply to it.

"Oh, don't look so scared, love—it's not as if you're going to die _first._ " She took a few steps backwards, returning to her stance in the middle of the room. "I wouldn't dream of doing that. Not when a far greater temptation lies waiting at my fingertips."

With these words she nodded slowly in the direction of her vision—to Joe, who hadn't moved a muscle through Gina's entire speech thus far. Instead he just looked at her, with such intensity.

I felt myself slowly shaking my head, but words didn't come until a moment later. "I don't understand. Why would you want to kill Joe? He hasn't done anything to you."

"What one does to Sonitrico, one does to me."

"But I've done more to injure Sonitrico," I said. "Haven't I?"

Gina's expression somehow remained neutral. "Of course you have. You and your little cronies from the GdiF have made me suffer more than you know. But I work well under pressure. And now it's my turn to give you a taste of the poison you so willfully inflicted upon _me_."

"What poison?" I asked, trying to keep her talking.

"Are you deaf or unintelligent?" Gina snapped, her knuckles whitening around the handle of the gun. " _You_ have made me suffer, Nancy. You have stolen my identity and played an imposter. So now, your payment—I return the favor. I make _you_ suffer. I steal your happiness, your hope, your life. But first, I steal _his_ life."

She spun around, lifting her revolver and aiming it perfectly at Joe, as if she'd already rehearsed the motion a thousand times in her head.

"No!" I screamed, but Gina hadn't planned on pulling the trigger. Not yet. It was just a scare. Though she kept it pointed firmly at his chest. Her finger was poised. Ready.

"Hear her scream?" Gina smiled a little, giving a sympathetic shrug with the shoulder that wouldn't impair her gun's aim.

Joe didn't respond. I noticed a swallow slip down his throat. His skin glistened with a light sweat.

"The sound of desperation." Gina laughed—a mumbled, exhaled laugh that wasn't really a laugh at all. "I'd tell you to get used to it, but…there's no need. I like you, so I'll put you out of your suffering much quicker."

"Gina, stop. _I'm_ the one you want dead. I'm the one who took your identity, the one who stood in for you when Tazza wanted the Sadal Melik sapphire stolen. _I'm_ the one who committed that crime in _your_ name!"

"Crime?" Gina laughed, her focus derailed by my words. "Have you _really_ not connected the dots yet? I was _watching_ that 'crime' in real-time on the security cameras, love. Do you really believe this warehouse belongs to Vladimir Thanatos?"

I felt my eyebrows pull together as I understood it all perfectly. "So this place belongs to _you?_ I stole a sapphire from you, only to give it back?"

"Well done." Gina nodded slowly. "I'd applaud you, but as you can see, my hands are full."

"So that entire theft was just a setup?" I asked, feeling my heart picking up the pace as Gina refused to bring her gaze back to me.

I was trying to buy Joe some time, but he didn't seem to want it. His head was down. Submissive.

"Did Tazza know that it was a setup?"

"Why does it matter?" Gina snapped, making Nico flinch slightly. "Why do you care? Curiosity, I presume? That infectious strain that has you all under its influence?"

 _Why hasn't he thought of something? Come on, Joe. We can get out of this._ Of course we _could._ But did he want to? I couldn't tell.

"Tazza believed the story of Vladimir just as much as you did. But he doesn't know the truth. He'll never know the truth. Now shut up. I don't have an infinite amount of time here." Gina spat out those last few words like I was her dog to be commanded. Then she turned to Joe, who was looking straight at her. "Like I said before, we have a job to get done. I need you to do your part."

My heart begged for more oxygen, beating in my throat.

"Your part is to follow through with my plan," she continued, still not lowering her revolver. "And make her suffer. I can't do it alone. I need you to do just one little thing for me, alright?"

Joe's eyes pressed shut, then opened again. She was the only thing he was focused on now. He inhaled. I couldn't.

"Just one little thing." Gina said, her tone flat and unfeeling. "Die."

 _Bang!_

A scream wrenched itself away from my lungs, but all I heard was silence. Silence as Gina let her gun back down to her side.

Silence as Joe collapsed to the floor.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: Haha yes... Samantha Quick still has a few tricks up her sleeve. ;) Joe definitely won't let himself get killed (if he can help it.) I'm sorry it's so confusing! I hope this chapter cleared a few things up. The plot definitely gets a little complicated toward the end. xD I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

 _Drumboy100:_ _Thank you so much! Your review made my day. :)_


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

 **Nancy**

My heart wanted to stop beating with his. It thumped at the inside of my ribcage and demanded like a spoiled child that this wasn't right—he couldn't die without me. Not now, not ever. If we were going down, we were going down together.

I screamed out his name, running to fall at his side. Of course, I was still aware of the guns around me that could've shot me at any movement—but I suddenly didn't care. Because dying with him would have been better than taking his cold, lifeless, beautiful face in my hands and knowing that he was gone forever. But nobody shot me. Nobody even lifted a gun to me. Nico saw, but he was talking to Gina—speaking words unintelligible through the fog that had wrapped around me like a shroud. I fell to my knees beside his body.

I was a knight on a battlefield, all covered in armor. Until my hands fell to his shoulder, his arm, his fingers. They were still warm. I took them and pressed them between my palms and sobbed. And suddenly all my armor was gone, and I was naked and alone and screaming over the bloodied battlefield around me. I was vulnerable. And he was dead.

Then his fingers released something—something he'd been holding in his right hand. It was shockingly warm to the touch as it fell into my palm. A bullet.

My heart froze. And the fog started to burn away. I lifted my gaze to his face, which was partially hidden in the shadow of his jacket. I would've noticed any breath of movement at that point. I caught the look on his face—the slightest implication of an inhale. The tiniest of side smiles that only I could see.

 _He's alive? No. No way is that possible, Gina shot him and he…_

I felt a swallow slip down my throat as I brought my gaze back to the bullet in my palm. And then back to his expression, which had fallen to neutral. And as if caught in a time warp, I was suddenly dragged back to the first night we'd seen each other. When he'd told me of the only sleight of hand he'd yet to accomplish.

… _he caught the bullet._ But how on earth? That wasn't possible.

My heart rate started skyrocketing, and I felt my next exhale empty out my lungs. I was whispering something in disbelief, but I couldn't hear it. Just as I hadn't heard myself scream when Gina had fired the gun, I couldn't hear myself speak as I grasped his hand once more. And he squeezed it back. Twice and reassuring, as if to say, _"Told you."_

I couldn't react. I thought he was dead, but now he secretly confirmed only to me that he was alive—and I couldn't react. Gina and Nico were still in the room, discussing something at the door. They were talking in low voices, but I could make out most of the conversation once my blanketing brain-fog had lifted.

"I'm done with her, Nico." Gina muttered, sounding disgusted. "I'll leave _you_ to take care of her. You can consider it payment for the job—although some cash will be included as well. Fair deal?"

"More than fair." He said.

I swallowed, feeling my heart falter in its climb back up to my head. I ran my tongue across my lips, trying to remember how to breathe. How to act like Joe was really dead when I knew that he was the furthest thing from it.

Gina left the room. I could hear her boots clicking on the floor tiles as she turned the corner. Then there came a pause, filled with a faint beeping sound from the other side of the wall. Then a searing, electric hiss. It was familiar to my ears—the sound of lasers being disarmed. But in this case, it was the exact opposite. The exit was still manned by Nico Petit, but now with the help of four lasers that crossed the doorway and promised no escape.

I hid my face from his, only for a moment, as I turned back to Joe. He gave me no expression, but the gentle pressure of his hand in mine was indication enough. He was going to help me. But I had to make the first move. I had to be brave. He took the bullet and released my fingers. I stood up and forced my brain to focus. Forced my heart to stay down in my chest where it belonged.

"You're going to kill me, then?" I asked, suddenly feeling the tears on my cheeks and not bothering to brush them away. "Like Gina told you to?"

Nico studied me for a second. I'd never had the chance to really look him in the eyes before that moment, either. They were a perfect shade of green, framed by dark eyelashes that I could imagine he was once teased for being born with. His face was innocent, frightened, dangerous. Like something waiting in the shadows. He slipped his revolver into the holster at his belt.

"No," he said, letting out a worn exhale in between his words. "No, I'm not going to kill you. That is, I don't _want_ to kill you."

My eyebrows found each other and I slowly shook my head. "I don't understand."

"Don't you?" he sighed, casting his gaze to the floor, as if too ashamed to look at me. "Don't you see that I'm not like her? You may have assisted the GdiF in apprehending me, but that doesn't mean I want you dead. After all, here I am. Out of danger unscathed." He shrugged, opening his hands as if to prove that they no longer held a threat.

"But you owe your freedom to Gina, don't you?"

"I might. That doesn't mean I agree with her tactics of getting revenge."

If only I could be certain of his words. If only I could trust that beast in his eyes who claimed the mask of honesty. If only everything was black and white.

"Nico…" I said, soft.

He didn't look up from the floor.

"Nico, do you want this? Do you want what Gina has offered you? This life of running away from the things you wish you never did? Bowing and scraping for something that used to belong to you?"

His gaze found mine, and locked there. "Of course I don't."

"Then help me. Please." I stepped forward. Three tiles quickly passed under my feet. "Help me get out of here and I _promise_ I will help _you_. I know some people who will—"

"No."

I stopped. "No? What do you mean?"

"You can't help me, Nancy," he said flatly, shaking his head. "The people you know can't help me. The people you know are in the business of locking up guys like me—forever. I'm an escaped convict. Don't you understand?"

"Nico." I pressed my lips together, fighting for the right words. "Nico, please. I understand it more than you know. I _will_ be able to help you. If you'll just shut the power off, we can both get out of here. Together."

"I can't," he said.

"Can't what?"

"I _can't_ shut the power off." Nico forced the words through gritted teeth. "Only Gina can shut the power off."

"What?" my voice escaped me in a whisper. "No, that can't be possible. There's a circuit of some kind on the wall right here. It must power something, like…the lasers, right—?"

"Don't touch that."

I'd already approached the metal box mounted to the wall behind him, and my hands were tingling with the urge to touch it, to power off the lasers, to get out of there as fast as possible.

"Why not? Does it shut off the lasers? Nico, we have to—"

"I said, don't _touch_ it!" He exploded, lunging forward and grabbing my wrists with his warm, iron hands.

A short scream tore out of my lungs as he slammed me back against the wall, holding me there. Holding me down. I squirmed and tried to kick my way out of his grip, but I'd lost my element of surprise and his hold was strong. _He_ was strong.

"Now you _listen_ , okay? _I'm_ in charge here. You heard what Gina said," He nearly growled the words, pressing me harder against the wall until my lungs begged for mercy. "She told me to take care of you."

I swallowed hard. "To kill me."

A hint of a smile crossed his lips. "No." His gaze fell to my hands, which were gradually going white from his vice grip. "Like I said before, I don't want to kill you." And his gaze fell to my neck.

"Get _off_ of me!" I threw myself forward, trying to kick him but failing at even unpinning myself from the wall.

His forearm locked over my neck, cutting off my next inhale, which rushed into my body as a broken gasp. With his other hand, he caught a fistful of my hair and wrapped it around his knuckles, pulling hard and whiplashing my head backwards. I tried to scream, but my throat felt closed.

"You're out of luck, Nancy," His words found my right ear in a torrent of hot whispers as he pinned my body against the wall and kept a firm hold on my hair. "Anyone who hears you scream isn't alive enough to care. Including me."

I did scream. In that whirlwind of a moment, my short-term plan spun into chaos. His hands latched onto my neck and dug in like nails to the coffin of my body. He hadn't let go of my hair, but he _had_ freed my hands—and they immediately fell around his waist, his holster, his gun. My fingers contracted there for dear life, shaking and tearing everything in their path. I fell to the floor, and took the gun in both hands, hooking my forefinger over the trigger and pressing it to the first blur of flesh that belonged to him. His neck.

It was as if the feeling of cold metal on his perspiring skin hit the pause button on time and space. His hands froze in their pursuit of my body. He was breathing hard, and I could feel his pulse reverberating through the barrel of the gun. A thin trail of blood escape from my lips. I could feel the cut where I'd bitten them, but not as intensely as I could feel the revolver in my hands.

"Get away from me," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Right now."

For the first few seconds, he didn't move. Maybe he never would have, if it weren't for the Conversed foot that shot out of left field and kicked him in the head, sending him sprawling on the floor. The force of it left me faltering as well. I scrambled to get out of the impact zone, and not set off the gun in the process. I heard a punch land on target, then Joe grabbed my assaulter by the back of the neck, shoving him down into a sleeper hold. It didn't take more than a few seconds, and Nico was out cold on the floor.

I released my hold on the revolver, gasping and trying to get my breath back. My lungs were shaking, almost as much as my hands. I tasted the blood off my lips.

"Are you okay?" Joe asked, falling to his knees beside me. "Nancy—"

"Yes, I'm fine," I replied more firmly than I'd intended to. "You took your time."

It hurt. That much I knew. But he took the punch like he took all the others—tensed and ready and barely feeling a thing.

"Yeah, sorry. I _did_ take my time. I Had to unzip-tie my hands, which isn't that easy, seeing as I lost my freaking pocketknife somewhere." Joe scoffed, getting to his feet and offering a hand to help me up.

I didn't take it. Instead I steadied myself against the metal wall, trying to refocus and get my bearings.

"We don't have much time." Joe said.

"I'm aware—"

"Of when Gina's going to be back? No, I don't think you are." He shot me a look, grabbing Nico's revolver from the floor and disengaging the trigger before shoving it into the deepest pocket of his jeans. "If this circuit really does shut off the lasers, we need to figure out how it works."

I nodded, relocating the metal box mounted to the wall and prying open the door. Inside was a small LCD screen and a simple power button—the latter which I pushed without hesitation. The screen illuminated an outdated shade of harsh blue, and took its time loading. I could sense Joe at my shoulder, keeping an eye on Nico and simultaneously breathing down my neck.

Finally the screen loaded to display a tiny, virtual chess board. It was strange, boasting only one game piece—the king—on my side of the board. The alternating colors of the tiles reminded me of the algebraic chess notation guide I'd left in my backpack in my room in the Ca Nascosta.

"Dang it," I whispered, pressing my eyelids shut.

"What's wrong?" Joe asked, his voice just as low. "Don't tell me this is some kind of—"

"Encrypted puzzle thing? I'm afraid so." I swallowed the tension in my throat.

Joe groaned, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "Encryptions are just clues in disguise. What do you know about the power system here?"

"Nothing." I replied.

"What did Nico tell you just now?"

"He said, 'only Gina can shut the power off.'" I turned to face Joe, finding his bright blue eyes not far from my own. "Only Gina…" The name sounded more potent to me, somehow. It was one word, four letters. Four lasers. _Gina_. I felt my eyes widen and I turned back around to face the screen. "That's it."

"What's it?" Joe asked, but I barely heard. Suddenly the screaming of my own thoughts were overpowering everything else in the room.

I had to remember the algebraic chess grid and the codes for the letters _G-I-N-A. G_ was on the fourth line, wasn't it? _Yes._ I grappled for my photographic memory of that page in the book, matching it up with the puzzle I was now facing with no guide.

 _King moves to G4._

The interface was touch-screen, and I couldn't have been happier about it. I landed my finger on the correct tile, and instantly the familiar hiss of a disarmed laser shot through the atmosphere. I couldn't help but smile. Just a little.

"Whoa," Joe whispered, a sudden urgency coming into his voice. "Did you see that?"

"The laser? Yeah—"

"No, the lights."

 _The lights?_

He was right. At the exact same moment the first laser had been disengaged, a set of lights in one corner of the room shut off. I could see the patch of fluorescent lights mounted to the ceiling—they were out.

"Are you sure those weren't off before?" I asked, feeling my voice quaver slightly on its way out.

"I don't know," he replied softly. "Make your next move."

I turned back to the chess board, closing my eyes for a split second to imagine the grid once more. What was the code for _I?_

 _King moves to A3._

I touched the corresponding square, and another laser vanished. As did another set of lights. My heart lost its footing as I realized what was happening. As I glimpsed the tall doorways that led to the adjoining warehouse rooms—two of which were pitch black.

"Keep going." Joe said, though his tone said a million things to the contrary.

"But if this is a master power switch, then we'll be running blind once I'm finished—"

"So what? Gina is somewhere in this building. She probably already knows that we're screwing with the power."

I swallowed hard, feeling my heartbeat quickening. Words failed me as my eyes locked onto Joe's. Deep and blue and intense. Close.

"Shut the power off, Nancy."

Almost mechanically, I shifted my gaze back to the LCD screen. And my last two moves came rushing to the forefront of my memory, almost by providence.

 _King moves to F3._

Another laser. Another set of lights. I could barely see anything beyond basic shapes and dull shadows in the glow of the screen.

 _King moves to A4._

The last laser seared as it died, freeing our exit. I swallowed hard, feeling for Joe's arm in the dark. I found it and grabbed hold, feeling my next exhale rush out, shaking like it was cold.

"She knows now." I said, almost in a whisper. "And she's not going to let us escape. She'll block the exit."

"Not if we get there first." Joe's warm, strong hand closed over mine and he started to pull me in the direction of the door. "Come on."

"But how?" I forced him to stop. " _How_ , Joe? It's pitch black in here."

It was true, I couldn't see a thing. But I swear I could see, even in the thick darkness, a faint smile catch onto his face. I heard it on his next sentence.

"Haven't you ever played flashlight tag?"

"Oh, right. That's exactly the case here, isn't it?" I somehow managed a taste of sarcasm, though everything in me wanted to scream. "Only we're playing with guns instead of flashlights."

Joe shrugged. "Nuance."

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: You've got it! I hope you like this turn of events. :) Thanks so much for reading, as always!_


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

 **Joe**

The lights were going to be our escape route. I'd paid close attention when I was tied up in the backseat of the car—counting each light and noticing how the car turned and stopped at our destination. I knew that it would come in handy. But lights only help if they're working, and these lights weren't working.

Nancy was scared—I could hear it in her voice. She had every right to be. The only thing I knew for sure was that Nico's gun—now tucked into my pocket—was loaded with very real bullets. That would be useful for something.

"Which way?" Nancy whispered to me, like if I knew.

"This way," I said, finding one of her hands and pulling her to the right, feeling along the wall. "It's actually better with the lights out—Gina won't be able to find us too quickly in the dark. It'll buy us some time."

"Yeah, but…didn't she say there were cameras in here?"

I nodded, reaching the end of a row of boxes. "Uh-huh…"

"They're probably infrared."

"Pssh," I rolled my eyes, cautiously stepping into the aisle. "They don't have infrared cameras in Europe."

Nancy scoffed. "Oh really? And where did you learn this fun fact—?"

"Shh." I stopped walking and let go of her hand.

Everything went silent. Then I heard the sound one layer above the silence. Foosteps. Soft and careful. Close. I pulled Nancy back behind the wall of boxes with me. Now the steps were muffled.

My eyes were finally starting to adjust to the darkness, and I could make out the basic shapes of another row of boxes before us, constructing the wall. We were waiting at the corner of a three-way intersection—one path led to the place we came from, one path led to the approaching footsteps, and one path led to God-knows-what. Hopefully the exit? I had no idea. I was clueless. I was blind. And I was so ripping frustrated.

The footsteps stopped. I listened, edging a little closer to the corner. Nancy's hand found my arm, contracting softly around my wrist. I blocked it out, just like I blocked everything else out—all other senses except sight and sound. That was the only way I could hear… _breathing._ Slow, soft, constrained. He—or _she_ —was close. I had to figure out if it was Gina, Fausto, or some other henchman that I hadn't had the pleasure of meeting yet. My left hand drifted to the gun in my pocket. Nancy's did, too.

"Joe," she whispered, only sounding the first letter. It was too quiet, even for whispering.

I pulled back behind the crate a few inches, turning to face her in the dark. I could feel the warmth of her body and her fingers still latched around my arm. She knew I was holding the revolver.

"Don't ask questions," I whispered back, so soft and close I could almost taste the faded scent of vanilla on her right ear. "When I say so, you're going to turn left and run as fast as you can. Understand?"

She nodded quickly. A strand of hair slipped from behind her ear and kissed my lips. I pulled back like a knee-jerk reaction, cursing my senses for operating normally. I didn't need them. I didn't need my heart to be pounding out of my chest right now. I didn't need to be afraid. But I was. _That's not how ATAC trained you, Joe._ I swallowed hard and inched closer to the corner. Listening.

The revolver silently moved from my left hand to my right, and I visualized my next move. Then I turned to Nancy and whispered that three-letter cue just as nervously as she'd said my name.

"Run."

She sprinted passed me and took a sharp turn to the left, running hard and fast. I stayed right where I was, firming my grip on the gun and lifting it to fire at the wall across from me. A flash, a bang, a wooden crate was assassinated. I ad-libbed a French cuss word and shot out into the aisle.

"She's getting away!" Fausto's voice, loud and clear. He was so discreet. And _such_ a goner. He found me in the dark, rushing to my side in a mess of sweat and heavy breath. "Nico, did you see her? Which way did she run? Come on, talk to me!"

 _He_ cussed in English. Impressive. But not as impressive as my uppercut, which found his jaw like a kicked puppy as I gracefully slammed him into a wall of wooden crates. With my other hand, I flipped the revolver around to kiss his temple, which was pulsing hard under my perfect aim.

"It pays to be left-handed," I said, grasping my breath back. "And for the record, I'm not Nico."

He was stuck fast under my hold, but his arms were free. In less than a few seconds, Fausto was mirroring my threat—only his gun was pressed against my larynx.

"Déjà vu, Hardy." Fausto laughed under his breath, eyes glinting slightly in the dark.

"Not quite," I felt the end of his gun dig into my throat as I spoke. "The playing fields are a little more even, this time around."

He scoffed and set the trigger. "Wanna bet?

"Joe!"

 _Nancy._ Her voice shot through the dark, via the direction I'd sent her in. Man, I was angry enough to slug this guy again. _Does she_ never _listen to a word I say?_ I'd told her to run, and she came back to find me. I could've swore. But instead I swept Fausto's legs out from underneath him. Once he fell to the floor, I delivered a hard kick to the stomach. It wasn't enough to break ribs, but it was enough to buy me 3.5 seconds of escape time. And then I heard my gun hit the floor.

 _No._

I had to run. I was blind in the dark, and I had no idea where the revolver had landed. Fausto would get to his first, and fulfill his desire of making my brain a bullet case. I couldn't risk it—I had to run, because now I was defenseless. (And I was also an idiot, but that was beside the point.)

Nancy screamed my name again, as a gun fired somewhere else in the room. The sound of the shot differed from Nico's revolver—only by a fraction of a degree. Having a couple years of gun training with fake and real bullets alike, I could make out the nuance even from the distance—earplugs and flashbang. I'd just heard Gina's gun. And suddenly I remembered that she had more than one dud in her revolver—it was loaded with a round of them. Which meant that we were safe under her flawless aim.

Fausto was still whimpering like a little girl and clawing at his ribs as the lights switched back on and Gina rounded the corner, a heat of intense anger flashing in her dark eyes.

"Stop!" she demanded, lifting her gun.

 _*Bang! Bang!*_

Earplug three and four of eight bit the dust as Nancy screamed. I spun around and ran for the doorway, which was exactly where I'd predicted it was. I could hear Gina yelling at Fausto to get up as a hundred wooden crates flew past me and I rounded the corner.

"Run!" I yelled to Nancy, who was slowing for a corner that I would've blown through if _I_ was leading.

She stopped short at the next doorway, slamming her hands against the wall and gasping for air. "Really? _Run?_ I thought I'd stop for a while." She shot me a glare. "Have a cup of tea, or something."

Then she reached up and grabbed a lever that was mounted to the wall, pulling hard. And almost instantly, a garage door that I hadn't even noticed hiding in the rafters slid down its rails and kissed the floor with a bang.

"What the—"

"It's spring-loaded," Nancy said, pulling the lever again.

"Oh that's great—you just locked us in a room with our killers!"

"They aren't our killers until they kill us, and I'm _opening_ the door now so just shut up."

"Does it take that long to open?" I shot the two-foot gap under the door a glance.

Nancy nodded quickly. "Apparently so."

I heard Fausto yelling. Two sets of footsteps. They were in the same room.

"Come on!" I grabbed Nancy's hand and dragged her under the door, which was now boasting a _three_ foot gap—plenty of room to escape under. My fleeting gaze found the opposing lever on the other side of the door. I reached up to yank it hard, slamming the exit shut again.

Nancy saw my next move and started to make a run for it. I was grateful enough to follow her lead—because she knew the warehouse better than I did. It was like a maze of crates and blunt objects. The first few corners brought us to clear paths, but then as we were nearing the next door on the left wall, Nancy slipped from my gaze and I heard a short scream cut the otherwise quiet room.

Her name strangled its way out of my lungs, and when I shot around the corner I realized something that I hadn't even given a second thought—the fact that Nico would eventually wake up. His cheap European army knife was pressed against Nancy's throat. I stopped short, tension cutting my voice box like I was the one feeling the sharp edge of a blade.

Nico was baiting me. All he wanted was time. Time enough to keep me standing there, reasoning with him over the cost of Nancy's life while Gina and Fausto got through the last door and cornered us like wolf prey.

I threw Nancy a look—a look that said, "Kick him where it hurts the most." (At least, I _hoped_ to communicate this.) And then I ran. Ran like a jerk, like I didn't give a crap about the girl I'd just taken an earplug bullet for.

Nico did a double take—a stupid, careless double take over his shoulder. And that was all we needed. All _Nancy_ needed. I heard the glory from ten feet away—the solid kick, the knife clatter to the concrete floor, and Il Fantasma howl like a baby. Nancy was free and hot at my heels, escape artist that she was.

We ran through another doorway, and Nancy grabbed the lever this time. The door flew from the ceiling to the ground in one quick rush. I didn't know which way to run. Every room looked the same.

"Joe, stop! We're going in circles!"

At this, I _did_ stop. I spun around to face her, noticing her disheveled hair. There was a thin cut at the side of her neck, but it wasn't bleeding enough to be a deal.

"Circles?" I repeated the word that sank my heart the first time.

She nodded quickly, breathing hard. "Yes. If I'm remembering correctly, this building has eight rooms surrounding the safe room, where Gina was just holding us captive."

"And where the heck is the exit!?" I didn't mean to shout at her, but it just sort of happened.

"I don't know! I can't remember." Her fingertips pressed into her forehead, failing at working out the tension.

I closed my eyes for a split second, trying to force myself into a focus of some kind _. I have to remember the way we came in. I have to remember…_

There was a beat of silence. Distance footsteps, rushing. My gaze drifted to the rafters, where the tube lights hung in consecutive order.

 _The lights. They're on._

If my heart hadn't been beating like a kick drum at the back of my head, I might've smiled with the realization. But things were too close to the end of the line for that. Bringing my gaze back down to Nancy, I managed to make sense of my whirlwind of thought.

"I know where the exit is."

"You do? But how?" she looked like she almost didn't believe me.

"We just need to get to the safe room again, and from there I'll be able to find the exit. Okay?"

Nancy nodded, still not fully understanding. "Okay… We must be in one of the outer rooms, so whichever door doesn't lead to a corner room will be the door to the safe room."

Her words were all logic, all sense, but they scrambled in my brain and I didn't understand a word of it. I shook my head, feeling my brow lower slightly.

"Can you just…lead the way?"

She nodded again, pushing past me and grasping my forearm in a gentle tug towards the right direction. A row of boxes, just like before, lined our path. And then there was a corner. Not thinking much about it, I let her go first, and slip out of my vision for a split second. Then she gasped.

I darted around the corner, almost crashing into Nancy, who'd frozen in her tracks as soon as her eyes had met the pair of cold, dark ones not twenty paces away. _Gina._ Of course she would find us. She must've come from the other direction as soon as we'd shut her out of the first room.

"You'd be advised to not move a muscle, loves." She told us, almost in the tone of routine. She didn't advance, but had all the posture of a checkmate. The number six revolver was still wrapped in her right hand. The revolver with four earplug bullets still set to go.

I could hear Nancy swallow hard as her eyes stayed fixed on our captor. Sure, Gina was stopping at nothing. But two could play that game. _Three_ could even play that game. And we were.

From where I was standing, I could see the doorway we needed to get through. I could see the lever that controlled the door. I could imagine where the lever would be on the other side of that thin metal wall. I could already feel it in my grasp.

I turned and pitched Nancy a look. I freed my left hand to grab hers and held tight. Then I ran, taking her with me.

Gina yelled something and fired her gun—once, twice, three times—right at our backs. Nancy screamed, but Gina was at a standstill to aim at us, and we'd already made it through the doorway. I jumped for the lever as soon as we were inside, pulling hard and dragging Nancy out of Gina's range. The garage door released, sweeping down in a rush and slamming to the concrete. I heard one more muffled shot from the other side. The last bullet. _She's going to reload, now. With real bullets._

"What…what _was_ that?!" Nancy gasped, looking down as if to check herself for any bullet wounds she'd missed. "She was firing right at us how come she—"

"We'll get to questions later, okay?" I looked up at the ceiling lights, letting myself think out loud. "It was three lights from the doorway. We stopped _here,_ right near the entrance to the inner room."

"What?" Nancy sounded genuinely confused, but I didn't have time to explain my mental notes. "I don't understand."

I glanced at the ceiling again, trying to quickly distinguish the sets of fluorescent lights, then counting in my head. _One, two, three, and then the doorway to the final room._

"She's not following us," Nancy said, quietly like if she wanted nobody but me to hear. "I mean, she's not opening this door."

I felt myself swallow. "Then she's coming around another way." I motioned with one hand for Nancy to follow me. "Come on, the exit's over here."

"But how do you know?" She said, chasing me down the same aisle of crates we'd run through only moments before.

"Just have some faith in me for _once,_ okay?" I spun around in time to grab her arm and shove her through the doorway so I could pull the lever and slam it shut as fast as possible.

When I turned back around, I threw the room a brief, surveying glance. We were back in the first room we had run through, after I'd kicked Fausto in the ribs. How did we miss the exit the first time? We'd run right passed it.

"Joe…" Nancy breathed, glancing from the left wall to the right, where the opposing doors were both sealed.

"I know," I took her arm again, pulling her to the left. "But it doesn't matter. We're here now, and I can see the exit door. Come on!"

"No, that's not…that's not what I was going to say!" she gasped for breath enough to speak, running at my heels. "I was going to ask if that door was shut before!"

I slowed my pace enough to listen. Enough to throw the walls a quick glance. There was a door cut into each wall, and three out of four were sealed off. I didn't want to consider the implications. The exit was flung wide open, and we had to get out of here. I didn't stop to listen to anything more. Instead I ran. I ran down the last row of wooden crates, turned the corner and sprinted for the open door. Then I heard a click. Dull, barely audible. And then the door came flying down to meet the concrete.

"Wwatch out Nancy!" I shouted over the sudden rush of noise, barring her way with my arm and stumbling back a few paces. "How on earth…?"

"How indeed."

I spun around, instinctively blocking Nancy from shooting range of the voice which belonged to someone with a fully-loaded revolver.

"Thought you could actually get out of here, didn't you?" Gina laughed under her breath, taking a few steps closer.

She was still at the other end of the room, but wouldn't be for long. All the doors were sealed. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know where to run.

I sidestepped to get in front of Nancy, who didn't appreciate the human shield and shoved me back in my place, getting around to the front.

"Gina, you can't do this," she said.

"Oh, can't I?" Gina smiled again, giving the revolver in her hands a discerning glance, as if trying to decide when to use it. "Seems to me that you two are heartbreakingly…defenseless. If only you had listened to me in the first place, this wouldn't have been so painful. But you didn't listen." She raised her gun, advancing two more steps. Three. "So now you're here."

I felt a swallow knot in my throat. I had to get that thing away from her. That was our only way out. I took one step in her direction. Two. Three. Four.

"I saw your trick, back there," Gina started to raise her voice, knuckles whitening around the handle of her revolver. "Thought you could fool me, did you?"

"I _did_ fool you, actually." Five steps. Six.

"No you didn't." She scoffed, shaking her head slowly.

"Then why did you fire at us?" I stopped. Close enough.

Her finger twitched over the trigger of her gun. Her dark eyes narrowed slightly. She saw the bullet finding my body in her mind. I launched myself at her, giving her wrist a brutal chop and shocking the revolver out of her grip.

Her foot found the gun before mine did—sending it spinning out of reach with one swift kick. Then she reached back and clawed for her holster, breaking out a second revolver and slamming its end to my chest like a stave, driving me backwards a few paces.

Nancy screamed my name, but I barely heard. I was too busy thinking about the gun to my chest and the ground that was passing under my feet as Gina shoved me backwards all the paces I had gained in pursuit of her first gun.

 _I really am dead this time._

All those fears I'd buried under the soft ground of regimented training rose to the front of my mind again. This was it. I couldn't defeat Gina. She would kill me. She set the trigger. I felt the wall of wooden crates kiss my back.

And then I heard a click. Not from the gun, but from something behind Gina, something in the ceiling. Something loud. The door. It was retracting. Opening.

Gina tore around, her hold on the gun weakening suddenly as a blindingly bright light pushed its way through the increasing space under the door. _Flashlights._ Someone yelled something in Italian—muffled, echoed—and several pairs of boots were suddenly silhouetted in the light. I could barely see. Gina's revolver fell from its aim at my chest. The door lifted enough for me to glimpse at least three figures, plus more rushing in.

"Fermati!" a dude's voice yelled.

He was shining one of the insanely bright flashlights and taking his stance behind the first person, who stood closest to the doorway. I couldn't make out a face, but her voice gave her away as she lifted both hands in a dual wield to show Gina just how busted she really was.

"I know," she said. "Being outgunned is very disappointing."

Gina's revolver hit the concrete and her hands went up over her head. The defeat that sunk her heart brought mine back to the surface to breathe. The dude with the accent and the flashlight stepped forward, bringing a few more officers (and handcuffs) with him. And the sassmaster lady lowered her weapons and slipped one back into the holster at her belt, as she stepped into the light of the warehouse. And then I could see her face.

I smiled.

And Sophia smiled back. And nodded. Once.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers: EEEEP I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS FINALE! But the end is not quite here yet...two more chapters to go! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! :D_


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

 **Joe**

I don't know what I was expecting to happen after the GdiF agents searched the warehouse, found Gina's assistants, and shoved them into waiting cruisers with their hands behind their backs—but I was _not_ expecting the flashlight dude to grab me by the arm and slap a pair of handcuffs onto my wrists.

Nancy tried to protest, insisting that I was helping _her,_ and not Gina. "Officer Capello, you have to understand!" She pleaded, more than once.

He didn't appreciate the demand and locked the handcuffs, dragging me by the arm towards the exit. " _You_ have to understand, Miss Drew. This is my job."

Sophia was watching the whole thing like a deer who had seen the headlights. She had been overseeing a small group of agents who were clearing the building for a weapon search, but when she saw Capello kindly escorting me off the premises, she dropped everything. Of course she would. Because suddenly, she was in more danger than I was. My hands might have been tied, but my tongue was definitely not. I heard the telltale clicking of her boots on the concrete a moment later, following us outside into the cool night.

"Capello!" She slowed her pace once she caught up. The officer unhanded me at the side of a black cruiser. "Capello, what do you think you are doing?"

"Scusami? Did you not say before that unidentified persons who are no affiliated with the GdiF are to be apprehended and taken for questioning—?"

"I did, but I did _not_ mean…" Sophia's eyes caught mine for a split second. Afraid. She drew in a short breath. "I did not _expect_ you to apprehend said persons without my…consent."

Officer Capello scoffed. "Your consent? I'm afraid I do not _need_ your consent, detective. I only need the consent of those from whom I take orders." That was apparently the final word on the matter. He popped the backseat door and shoved me inside.

I cursed under my breath as soon as he shut the door—only because I didn't notice the pretty, young, female agent occupying the driver's seat. She cleared her throat to make things even more awkward and snapped on the light above her console. She had a clipboard and an up-do and told me that her name was Livia and she would be my server tonight. I told her that I was sorry for cussing but it's been a long day. She opened her mouth to say something else, but a sharp draft of cold night air interrupted as Sophia yanked open the door and moved into the passenger seat.

"Livia? What is the meaning of this?" She tried not to explode, but I could see the pressure building behind her dark eyes as she threw a glance to the backseat.

Poor Livia was just trying to follow what her clipboard told her, apparently. She clutched it with both hands and shook her head in confusion. "I don't understand…"

"Neither do I." Sophia snapped. "This man has _assisted_ the GdiF tonight with his service and I believe it goes against our code of _respect_ if not conduct to distrust him so far as to take him in for—"

"Excuse me, but… _assisted?_ He has no affiliation with the GdiF." Livia thumbed through a few of the pages in her hands. "Our records are very clear, and I'm afraid we cannot identify…"

Sophia pulled in a frustrated breath. "Yes, but…I believe I am right in telling you that he is no suspect in this case—"

"You _believe_ you are right?" Livia's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "But you have no proof? Detective Leporace, do you even know his name?"

Silence. She wanted to say yes, she wanted to say no, she couldn't say anything. So she didn't. She just lowered her gaze to the floor.

Livia sighed, slapping her clipboard down on the console in frustration. "What I'm curious to know, Sophia, is when you decided to be in favor of common vigilantes."

 _Ouch._ That must've been a poke to Detective Leporace's tender pride. She said nothing for a few moments, letting the silence go up for sale.

"Livia, may I speak to…" Sophia cleared her throat. "Could you leave us alone for a moment?"

The agent threw up her hands and popped open the driver's seat door. "As you wish. But only for a moment. Capello will insist on leaving soon." _Slam._ And she was gone.

Sophia let out the breath she must've been holding this entire time. She twisted around in her seat to face me, but didn't look me in the eyes. Not yet.

I brought my gaze down to the chain between my wrists. "Well, it's good to be in handcuffs again. Brings back lots of memories."

"Please do not insert humor into this situation, Joseph." Sophia spoke through gritted teeth, finally looking me in the eyes. "Do you not understand the position I am in right now?"

"I do. And it's a position of your own making, Sophia—"

"Joseph—"

"No." I cut in firmly, silencing her for the first time. "Let me talk first."

Her shoulders fell back in slight abrasion, but she kept her mouth shut. I took that as my cue to go.

"Sophia, you and I have been in the same situation since day one. When I first arrived in Italy I thought your behavior was suspicious—how you'd keep me out of communication with all other GdiF agents and higher-ups other than you, how you'd sent me to that first stakeout with literally no equipment, setting me up for inevitable failure. I _could_ go on—"

"Please don't." She interjected through gritted teeth.

"At first I thought that was just how Italian law enforcement groups worked, but then I met someone. By accident. I met her on the lower altana of the Palazzo Orpello on the night of the stakeout. I crashed right into her and she ran, dropping her radio in the process. And to answer that question you asked me so long ago—whether or not this girl would recognize me if she saw me again—no, she didn't recognize me. I'm the one who recognized her—who _identified_ her as Samantha Quick, frequent patron of the Casa dei Giochi. Samantha Quick—whom you _knew_ about. Whom you employed and supplied with euros enough to buy none other than the disguise it took to make me believe for a short period of time that Nancy Drew from River Heights, Illinois, was actually an international spy."

Sophia looked stunned. Stunned that I checked my facts and had a mortar round of information to shoot her little masquerade down with.

"So yes, I've known all this for a while now. I've known that you've been responsible for underhanded means that will only justify _your_ end. But what I don't know is why." I took my gaze back to Sophia's dark eyes, which were still wide. "Why would you go through all this? Why would you risk everything on the scheme of hiring me for this job? I don't get it."

She baited a deep breath and held it in her lungs for a moment before letting her words rush out of her. "God help me. I know now that the risk wasn't worth it. But I had to do _something._ "

I shook my head slowly. "Why?"

There was a short pause. Sophia pressed her eyelids shut, letting her dark lashes touch her cheeks for a split second. "Joseph, it is impossible to describe how much this case meant to me. It was all going to be perfect—it _was,_ in my mind. A lost cause turned to renewed hope—renewed hope for _me._ "

I was confused. Sophia caught my expression and came right out with it.

"I've always been second-fiddle, Joseph. I still am—you noticed how Officer Capello treated me just now. They all treat me this way—with contempt. I'm not in a low enough position to be a peer to those who surround me, and I'm not in a high enough position to be respected as leader, or called upon to make important decisions."

"And you thought that solving this case would grant you a promotion?"

"No. Of course it wouldn't… Things do not work this way." Sophia clasped her hands together in the lap. "But it might have bought me some of the respect that I deserve."

I glanced back down, at my handcuffs. "So…even if I had solved the case without the help of any other GdiF agents, you would have taken the credit for yourself?"

Looking down, she replied softly, "I would have paid you in full."

"But you wouldn't have given me the credit," I insisted, shoving her closer to the monster in her closet. "You would have sent me back to America…back to New York…and my name would never have crossed the lips of your fellow agents."

Sophia swallowed.

"If you could do it all over again, would do it differently?"

"Why does it matter?" Sophia snapped. "I cannot go back and do it again, Joseph."

I just stared into her eyes for a few seconds, trying to read her thoughts. Failing. But my gaze touched something deep in those dark irises, and the smallest of words escaped from her lips.

"Yes."

I didn't say anything for a minute. Then I heard Sophia draw in a quick breath, as if she suddenly remembered the time.

"Joseph, I have to know."

I looked up, shaking my head slowly. "Know what?"

She shot a glance through the back window, checking agents' whereabouts. "If you're going to tell them. If you're going to…turn me in. I have to know in order to prepare…for whatever happens next."

I ran my tongue over my lips, impulsively wanting to mess with my hair but finding my hands tied. "Sophia…you know what I have to do. It's my duty."

I could almost see her heart sinking.

"When I pledged my commitment to ATAC, I made an oath. An oath that we all believe cannot be revoked. For any reason."

Sophia nodded slowly.

"This oath isn't about enforcing the law or flashing badges or nabbing the bad guys. It's about integrity. And trust. And forgiveness. The oath is about knowing when to give someone a second chance. Because if you don't help anyone up _ever_ , then you'll be running alone. And everyone else will be down on the ground and you'll never know how many of those people could've made it to the finish line…if they'd just been given a second chance."

Her eyes found mine. Dark. Listening. Waiting for the rest.

"I _swore_ I wouldn't break that oath, Sophia, and I can't." I shook my head slowly, feeling a faint smile trace my lips. "And let's face it—you saved my ass back there. That deserves _some_ kind of a bonus, don't you think?"

She didn't smile. Instead her lips parted slightly in what I knew to be total surprise. She wasn't expecting that speech, and honestly, neither was I.

"I will find a way to get you out of the station and this ridiculous background check arrangement as soon as possible, I promise." Sophia said. "Perhaps things will go quicker if I can create a document of your credentials and basic information from…a recommended detective agency which will remain nameless."

"Sounds good. Oh, and can you…put something in there about me having psychic abilities?" I was totally pushing my luck, but hey—it didn't hurt to ask.

Livia opened the driver's seat door and hopped inside, announcing that we had to get to the station. Sophia threw me the most serious of looks, leaning slightly forward as Livia started the engine.

"I will see what I can do."

Her sense of humor, man. I loved it.

When we got to the station, Livia led me through a side door and into a stiff little chair where Sophia's victims apparently had to sit. I played so nice—I didn't even pick my way out of the handcuffs, as much as I wanted to.

I sat there like a good little boy and searched the room high and low for a wayward box of doughnuts while Sophia chatted with Livia and wrote up my credentials on the computer. She had to stop typing every once in a while and search the screen for something that wasn't there (so as to not appear suspicious) but Livia was so busy blabbing about some kind of tax return thing, I swear she wouldn't have noticed if Sophia was playing internet chess.

"Um, can I ask a question…?" I spoke up, raising one hand—which, inevitably took the other hand with it. I looked at the handcuffs like I didn't understand, then I looked at Sophia and tried not to burst out laughing.

She forced herself to not smile. I could tell. "Yes, you may."

"What's going to happen to Nancy?"

Sophia opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by Livia, who torturously took her stance behind me.

"She will have been cleared by now, and identified as one of the GdiF's recently hired agents. She'll be free to go home whenever she chooses." Livia cleared her throat. "Or free to come here and…see you."

"See me?" I repeated, her language sounding a little too indefinite for my comfort. "I'm not going to be here that long. Right?"

Sophia shot me a look—like if she was surprised that I should ask such a scandalous question. "We…will see. Hopefully not. Your…information is still being retrieved from our…sources." She nodded for emphasis, though I needed none.

"Oh, okay. Cool. I'll just…" I cleared my throat. "Leave you to concentrate."

Livia was staring at me. I wanted to ask her what was beyond that creepy little door with the wired window, but I found out soon enough—it was a cell for overnight guests. And I ended up being one of them.

Sophia and I had two seconds worth of whispered conversation as she kindly unlocked my handcuffs and showed me to my cell, which boasted a stiff canvas cot.

"Processing your information through our system takes time. I am truly sorry for the delay, Joseph."

I flexed my wrists, which were pretty cramped. "Don't worry about it. Just wake me up when it's all over."

* * *

It ended up being over at seven o'clock in the morning. Five hours seemed like a pretty darn long time to wait for a small group of law enforcement agents to confirm that yes, I was indeed Joseph Hardy hailing from Bayport, New York and yes, I hated coffee, and yes, I could read minds, and yes, I intended no harm to my fellow man. Maybe they were on doughnut break, or something. Three AM doughnut break. Witching hour doughnut break. I didn't care, in any case. I was asleep.

Until Sophia woke me. First she tried knocking on the door. I barely heard. She knocked again. I started to become aware of the vicious ache in my shoulders and back. She pushed open the door and stepped inside and said my name. I was kind of awake by that point, but I didn't let her know. Instead I let her tap my shoulder. Lightly with two fingers, almost like she was afraid to disturb me.

"Joseph…"

I drew in a sharp breath, forcing myself into consciousness. "Yeah, what is it? Another air raid drill?"

Sophia completely disregarded that comment/question. Instead she just said in her usual tone of unaffected calm, "Nancy called."

"What? When?" I was suddenly much more aware.

"A few minutes ago."

"Did she want to talk to me?"

Sophia tilted her head slightly to one side. "No."

I felt my eyebrows pull together.

"But she did want me to give you this message." Sophia handed me a small square of pink paper, folded in half. "I thought I should wake you. It seemed…somewhat urgent."

Seriously confused, I opened up the paper and turned it right-side-up, scanning Sophia's neatly penciled writing.

 ** _I am leaving for home this morning. My plane departs at ten o'clock. If you want to talk to me before I go, meet me at the Ca within the hour. Otherwise, I'm afraid I won't see you again._**

 ** _-Nancy_**

I felt a swallow knot in my throat as I read the note a second time. A third time. Then I got to my feet.

"Oh man, I have to go. Like…I have to get out of here, can I leave now?"

Sophia nodded. "Yes, you may leave. Everything is settled."

"Thank you," I sighed, shoving the note into my back pocket. "Really, Sophia, I mean it. Thank you for everything."

She looked a little surprised by my gratitude. Then she smiled. For the first time in what felt like forever. "No, Joseph. Thank _you._ "

I nodded, like _no problem,_ and stuck out my hand for a shake.

Sophia looked at it for a moment. Then she grasped it with her own, but she didn't shake it. Instead she came at me with a brother hug. Like a serious, legit one—the kind only serious, legit bros know how to do. The one hand clasp and the forearm embrace, light on the shoulder smack, heavy on the sentiment.

I smiled and said, "See you later, man." And then I got out of there.

* * *

 _FlightFeathers:_ _EEEP THANK YOU. I'm so glad their personalities show through the writing. Sometimes that can be tricky. I hope you like this installment! One more chapter until the end! :D_


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

 **Nancy**

I wasn't ready to leave. But I told myself that I must. I looked in the mirror at my reflection and I said, "Nancy, you are ready." My heart wasn't in those words. It was somewhere else, and I couldn't find it. My plane was leaving at ten o'clock that morning, and I had to be on board—with or without my heart.

Duties had to be performed before I could pack, and with those tasks I found distraction enough. First I called Sophia and told her to relay a message to Joe, who had apparently been held for background checks for the rest of the night. I congratulated myself for keeping my emotions in check. Exactly as they had to be.

A GdiF agent had informed me the night before that I was to thank a man by the name of Ned Nickerson for our rescue. Apparently he had phoned Sophia from my pager, which I'd left in my room. He'd been worried about me—of course he would have gone back to the Ca later to check on me. I had been abducted by Nico at that point, and the room undoubtedly boasted some disturbance. He'd found my pager and dialed Sophia, who then activated my tracking device and knew that something was wrong, based on my location at Zattare. It was a close save, and I had to thank Ned for it.

So after hanging up with Sophia, I grabbed my sunglasses and headed off into the chilly, bright morning to hunt him down with my most sincere gratitude. Before I exited the Ca, I stopped myself in the lobby as a sudden realization struck me. It had to do with those notes I'd found, days before. First the one that challenged my being a "good detective" by asking if I knew who the mystery sender was. Then the second one, which had mentioned my locket and again asked me if I knew who the author was. Ned told me that he'd never left a note for me, so that element of the mystery was still unsolved.

My realization was something that Ned had confirmed the day before—the fact that he had never left me a note of any kind. Not even before I met him in the market on the day of his arrival. This element of the mystery was still unsolved. And that brushed me like an itch.

I paused in front of the door, not moving to open it yet. Instead I turned to Helena, who was determinedly penning something into a notebook. Slight suspicion intuitively sounded in my mind.

"You know…" I began softly, directing my roommate's attention to my voice.

She threw me a puzzled glance.

"I never did figure out who sent those notes. You know, the parcel you left on my bed, and the one I found under my door the next day. I never figured out who sent them."

"Didn't you?" Helena laughed, setting her pen into the creased heart of an open book. "Vell then. I suppose you _aren't_ zat good of a detective after all…"

I felt my eyebrows lax and my shoulders drop. " _You_ were the one who left those notes for me? The one about my locket, and everything?"

Helena smiled a little—mischievously. "Do zey say, 'case closed' at zis part?"

"But you opened one of them, remember? When I accused you of reading it, I could tell that it had been opened and resealed. And you said that it was from my 'lover,' or something."

"I believe zey call it, 'covering your tracks,' in the detective vorld, am I right?" She laughed. "How else could I have evaded suspicion?"

I couldn't believe it. A slight smile broke onto my face. "But why on earth?"

"Vhy _else_ , Nancy?" Helena rolled her eyes, seeming annoyed in her dry, amused way. "You vere annoying me, with your perfectly-together life and inflated sense of self. I couldn't help but annoy you back." She shrugged and laughed a little, under her breath.

"Well you'll be pleased to know that you succeeded." I smiled and nodded, turning to grasp the doorknob. "Good job, Helena."

* * *

Ned's lodgings were quite across town. He seemed surprised to see me, but relieved. Our conversation was not a long one. I thanked him profusely for contacting the GdiF, assuring him that it was definitely the smartest move to make at that point. He requested a brief review of what happened, and I got away with not giving much detail.

The news of my leaving the country seemed a bit of a surprise to him, but not an unpleasant one. We would be seeing each other again soon, in River Heights. I gave him a hug in earnest friendship and took my leave.

On my walk back to the Ca, I couldn't help but let my mind wander to my most recent phone call—the message I'd left for Joe. Cool, informative. _Meet me at the Ca within the hour._ My own words returned to haunt me. My paced quickened. _Otherwise, I'm afraid I won't see you again._ And what if he didn't come? What then? _No._ I tried to regulate my breathing, tried to slow my steps. I couldn't. The distance between me and the Ca Nascosta quickly shrank to nothing, and I was at the doorstep. I pulled myself through the entrance and into the patio. The empty, sunlit patio. I heard footsteps behind me. Lungs gasping for breath. I knew the sound they made. Familiar.

I tore around, my heart sufficiently in my throat. On fire. Then my eyes caught those bright blue ones. I reached up to remove the sunglasses from my face. To fold them up in my hand. To breathe. To speak. _Fire._

"Joe."

He stopped in front of me. Two paces away. Still trying to catch his breath. "Nancy, you're…"

My fingers trembled. I pressed them to my palms.

"You're leaving."

"Yes."

His brow lowered slightly in confusion. "Why?"

The question struck me as an odd one. I swallowed, tight. Shook my head. "Because…my work here is done."

He laughed. A little sarcastically, under his breath. A laugh that wasn't laughter. Then he looked up at me. "It's all business for you, isn't it?"

My right hand tensed without warning. I pushed my shoulders back slightly, muscles tightening to grasp the unspoken words. Words that I couldn't use, not on him. However much I wanted to.

"Joe, I know what you did last night." I said, cold. "Ned told me."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Who's Ned?"

"My friend, whom you blackmailed into distracting me last night, lest I discover your intensions." I swallowed, attempting to put my heart back in its proper place. "I didn't understand _why_ until I was heading back to the Ca. And my god, Joe. The thought sickened me."

He was speechless, searching, baffled. "I don't understand—"

"How can you not understand?" I took one step closer, narrowing the space between us. "How could you do that to me, Joe? How could you do that to _yourself?_ "

He was shaking his head, still not getting it. My blood was on its way to a boil, my hands still in fists.

"You _knew_ what was going to happen if you followed that note, if you took my tracking device. You _knew_ what they all wanted—they wanted me dead. You knew that if _you_ went it my place, then you would die. That's just what you wanted, wasn't it?"

I was breathing hard after that short speech. It took more energy than oxygen, but I felt about as exhausted as a bomb ready to detonate.

"Are you disappointed, Joe? To find yourself still alive?"

"What the hell are you talking about—?"

"Don't act like you don't know!" My voice was loud, angry. "Don't act like we never had that conversation about your past, about Iola, about the crosshairs tattooed on your back."

The confusion left his eyes and he pressed them shut for a second, pulling in a sharp breath. "Nancy…"

"As if I could forget what you said to me that night," I attempted to bring my voice back down. "As if I could forget the words you chose to use. How you said that you killed her, and that you deserved to die. How you wouldn't let anyone else die in your place."

"Nancy."

"Do you call that 'bravery,' Joe? Because I don't." My eyes were starting to burn with something like tears. "A _coward_ wants to punish himself for his mistakes. A _coward_ would rather face death than life—"

"Nancy! Listen to me—"

"No! Don't you _dare_ say that I'm wrong when I know that I'm right. You would have let yourself die last night out of guilt for Iola—"

"You're wrong!" Joe cut me off, somehow narrowing the space between us even more. "Dammit, can't you see, Nancy? I didn't do it out of guilt for Iola." His voice softened, "I did it out of love. For you."

Everything failed me. My heart, my voice, my lungs. I couldn't do anything but stare into those eyes. Close. Blue. Reflecting the curves of sunlight painting the wall behind me. _Love? No._

"Joe," his name fell across my lips in a whisper as the numbness receded in my fingers. I started to breathe again—heavy, hard. "You should really…stop. Stop saying things you don't mean."

My heart pounded at my ribs like my feet at the stairs as I shoved past him and ran for the front door of the Ca. He followed me, across the marble floor of the empty lobby. I reached my room, slamming the door shut and turning the lock. My chest collapsed under the weight of a shaky exhale.

He tried the doorknob. "Nancy, please!"

"No! Just leave…leave me _alone_!"

There was a pause. I tried to swallow my heart. It was swollen and throbbing in my throat. I watched as he shook the doorknob again. He wouldn't pick the lock. He would break it.

I fell to my knees beside my bed, dragging my suitcase out of the shadows, and slamming it open on my mattress. I don't know how Joe managed it without a knife, but he did. The tumbler inside crumbled and the oak door swung open.

"Nancy," Joe's words bled desperation. "I'll die if I can't tell you this."

I shook my head quickly, eyes burning. I didn't look at him. I opened my wardrobe and tore the clothes hangers off my shirts, throwing them into my open suitcase.

"I _do mean it,_ Nancy. I love you. I've loved you for every second of every day since I first met you. At the club, and even before that. I've loved you ever since you kicked me in the stomach at that stakeout. I have stopped thinking about you since that moment. I _mean it,_ Nancy—that's why I had to figure out your name, that's why I had to see you. That's why I took your tracking device. That's why I went in your place last night."

My heart was louder now, faster now. I still didn't look at him. I yanked open the bottom drawer, pulled out everything that lived there, threw it into my suitcase.

"I did _not_ go out of guilt, Nancy." Joe kept talking, kept pleading. "There was a time when I would have done that. There was a time—very recently, in fact—when I didn't give a crap about my life and would've gladly died because I felt like I deserved it. But not anymore. Because now I know you. And you've given me a reason to live—a reason to not want death, not _ever_. You've given me a reason to hope, even if it's just to hope for a person who will never be mine."

My heart was stuck in quicksand. Howling, screaming, like a wild wind that couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a hurricane or a thunderstorm. I was breakable, breaking, broken. My hands were back to trembling. I got around the other side of the bed, my back to Joe.

 _No._ My eyes stung with unborn tears.

"Do you remember those letters I sent you, Nancy? First the invitation to meet me at Rialto Market—where I waited for hours and you never showed up. Then the one I left for you after we'd opened the safe room in the tunnels—where I thanked you and told you that you were beautiful? And finally, yesterday, I left a note that said I had to tell you something important and I couldn't write it in a letter, I had to say it to your face? You're right, I was once a coward. But not anymore. I once wanted death like nothing else. But not anymore."

My hands had frozen, tightening around the edge of my suitcase. My eyes stopped trying to hold back. The tears rushed from my cheeks.

"Nancy." Joe's voice was shaking almost as much as my fingers. "I want _life._ I want _you._ " His voice softened to a whisper. "I love you, Nancy."

I pressed my eyes shut, lashes shedding the rest of their waiting tears, trying to lock in the sobs that begged to escape. I looked up, turning around to face him.

Blue eyes. Close. Catching the morning light that was reflecting off the river and cascading through the glass door. So desperate. Waiting for me. Knowing nothing of my thoughts.

There was my victory—he couldn't read my mind. Not now, when it mattered most. I got the upper hand. I got the element of surprise. I laughed. I dried my tears with the back of my hand. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him.

Suddenly everything was warm and right as our bodies melted into each other, and my fingertips traced his neck. I didn't want to breathe. Breathing meant letting that distance come back, even for a second. I felt a smile pass over my lips as they separated from his, only long enough to pull in a shallow breath and crush the space between us again. His warm hands rested at the small of my back, and mine found his cotton t-shirt. Spearmint. Cologne. Skin.

The sunlight came between us like a chiding chaperone—gently cutting through to separate us. My fingers slipped down to rest on his collarbone, and I suddenly realized that I'd been on my tip-toes. Sinking back down to my heels, I looked up into his eyes.

"Thank you," I whispered, barely feeling the words escape my lips.

A hint of a smile passed over his face and he reached up to gently brush away a tear I'd missed. I felt the contact of his fingers on my skin. _Finally._ That's what the hurricane whispered between heartbeats, though I didn't understand its language. _Finally, finally, finally._

* * *

When I boarded my plane at ten o'clock, neither one of us wanted to say goodbye. He said it was okay if I didn't—and that I didn't even have to look back and see him standing there at the gate. So I didn't say goodbye. I just asked him how he caught the bullet. And he refused to say.

"No, seriously." I insisted, arching one eyebrow. "Tell me how you did it."

"Didn't I mention? I don't like to be defeated by the laws of physics."

I smiled a little, looking up into his face. "That means we'll see each other again soon, right?"

"Mm…shockingly soon."

I thought I glimpsed an envelope in his hand, but a second later, after he'd kissed me softly on the lips and whispered, "Until then, Nance," his hands were empty.

I forced a sad smile onto my lips as a lame replacement for his, and turned to walk away. I didn't think I would be brave enough to do it. But I did it. I stopped before the corner of the terminal and turned and saw him, standing there, watching me go. I waved.

Boarding that plane was hard. It felt like stretching an elastic beyond its capacity, bracing yourself for the inevitable snap. I didn't want the ache in my chest to be so severe—but it was. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I didn't open up my carry-on bag until I was thirty thousand feet off the ground and several hours into the flight. My hands searched for a notebook, but they found something else—an envelope. An envelope with my name penned across the front in Joe's handwriting. How had he slipped it into my bag without me noticing? Did I even have to ask myself that question?

A smile warmed my lips for a moment as I slipped my fingertips under the seal and pulled out the contents of the envelope, one by one. First there was a hairpin. _My_ hairpin. The missing one. The one he'd liberated from my blonde wig on the night of the interview. Our first conversation. Next, there was a Scopa card. A Scopa card that was signed by me. One side boasting the first few letters of my real name, _Nan_ with a line crossed through it. Then _Samantha_. And again, on the other side. _Samantha._

The last item in the envelope was a small square of unlined paper, scrawled with a short message.

 ** _Nancy,_**

 ** _I thought you might want these things back._**

 ** _But I have a confession to make: I kept your other glove._**

 ** _I hope you don't mind._**

 ** _Love,_**

 ** _JH_**

* * *

 _Notes:_ _Thank you so much, everyone, for reading this AE! I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review and let me know what you think! I love to read all your comments. I'm not sure when I'm going to write another fanfiction, but I hope to return in the future!_


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